Brokeback Apartment
by Color With Marker
Summary: It's the summer of 1983. Mark Cohen and Roger Davis, strangers to each other, get a job watching the Greys' akita over the summer - alone. As time passes on, a friendship forms between them, which turns into a secret romance between the supposedly-straight men.
1. Chapter 1

Mark Cohen holds his camera steady in his hands. The handle on the side slowly unwinds itself as the film reel collects the information of its surroundings. Cars zoom by, the horns honking and very angry New Yorkers making obscene hand gestures and comments to those around them driving recklessly. Smells of various delis, pizzerias, fast-food joints, and bakeries linger in the air. The hot mid-June sun hangs high in the sky, no clouds around to provide shade from the intense heat. Although it's nearly eighty-five degrees outside, a nice breeze comes by every now and then, meaning Mark has his beloved scarf loosely wrapped around his pale neck. Girls in mini skirt and shorts and strapless tops bounce around, their boobs bouncing and nearly exposed to the hundreds of people around them. They cling on to men walking around in plaid or khaki shorts who aren't ashamed to be shirtless, their abdominal muscles and perfect tans slightly intimidating Mark. It's one of the reasons he assumes he's always single, other than the fact that he's the one with a camera zoomed in on these strangers. He'd just graduated from Scarsdale High School and decided to spend his summer with a job. If there was anything he doesn't want to do his last summer before attending Brown University, it's spending it at home with his deadbeat father, overprotective mother, and snobby older sister, who's now engaged and five months pregnant. At least Providence is three hours away, too far of a drive in his family's opinion to do. Of course, he knows that he should expect them to call him very often, but their voices are much more tolerable than their physical presence. The handle on the camera stops. Rather than rewind it, Mark puts it in his messenger bag and sits down on the front steps of the Cyberarts studio.

A beat-up light blue Cadillac parallel parks right in front of the building. Out steps Roger Davis, a stranger to Mark. Roger is a year older than Mark and an aspiring musician. He couldn't afford to go to College like Mark, so he had spent his first year out of high school working many jobs, all of which he was fired from. Now he's here to see what kind of job he can receive for the summer. He needs the money to help support himself. For the past ten years, Roger has been an orphan. His parents, musicians who were well-known in NYC, passed away from AIDS, unknown when they had first received it and unrecognized until it was too late. Luckily, Roger was born before either contracted it (from sticking filthy needles to inject heroin with in their veins). His aunt raised him and then tossed him out when he graduated. Fending for himself means he needs a house, and this job will help him. However, he's meant to get married in the fall with a dancer his aunt set him up with. Yes, she's a pretty little thing, the Mimi Marquez (soon-to-be Mimi Davis), but she's a stranger to Roger. A stranger who's going to be his wife in less than six months.

Roger sits next to Mark. Neither boy acknowledges the other's existence. They don't think that they even need to familiarize themselves. They're just to men waiting outside the same building, nothing more. What's the point of saying hello if they're most likely not going to speak to each other again?

The door opens. Mark and Roger turn to see Mr. Grey, an older, powerful businessman from Westport, looking down upon them. He's wearing a black suit, giving off the vibe to the boys that he's one hundred percent business no matter what time of year it is. His thinning hair and beard is white, and his blue eyes show nearly no emotion. Usually, he would shake their hands, but he doesn't want to touch them. He feels like all boys from the city (even though he's fully aware that Mark comes from an upper-middle-class family in Scarsdale) are dirty and scum.

"If you boys want a job, you may want to come inside," he says.

He steps aside and lets Mark and Roger into the air-conditioned building. He leads them through the dull lobby and a maze of hallways to his office. He closes the door after they enter and sits behind the large chestnut desk. Mark and Roger sit in the plastic chairs and stare at him.

"I assume you two are here in response to the ad I'd posted in the Village Voice?" he asks. The two boys nod. "Well, you are the only ones to respond, therefore, you'll get the job. During the summer, my wife, daughter, and I usually travel to the Hamptons on vacation. It's a very lovely place, if you'd ever been there." In the back of his mind, Mr. Grey has a feeling that neither of the boys have ever been to the Hamptons. "Well, this year, renovations are being done on our house to expand its size, so we're going to spend the summer in Milan. However, the hotel we're going to doesn't allow pets, and I don't trust kennels. They'll neglect my precious Evita." Mr. Grey turns around a picture frame with a photograph of a white dog with blue eyes and its tail curled upwards. "She's a purebred Akita, very beautiful and very valuable. I don't trust minorities either." He's grateful two white boys responded to his ad now. Better than any Mexican, black, or - God forbid - a _Bohemian_. "I'm entrusting my Evita to you boys for the summer. My daughter Alison has looked over your resumes, and she thinks that you two are qualified. If you prove her wrong, you two will have to deal with her." He smirks a bit at the way Mark gulps when he mentions that small detail.

"How much is the pay?" Roger asks.

"I've decided that one-fifty a week is a reasonable price."

"A dollar and fifty cents?"

_He must be a Bohemian_, Mr. Grey thinks to himself. "One hundred fifty dollars," he explains. "Of course, it would be more, but I'm taking out some money so that the local grocer can buy you food every week, along with food for Evita, toiletries, et cetera."

He reaches into a drawer in his desk and pulls out a stapled packet of rules and information for Mark and Roger. "Here's some things you need to know," he continues. "Rule number one: Every night, one of you may sleep in the guest bedroom, but the other must sleep in the living room on the couch to keep Evita company. Rule number two: My bedroom, Alison's bedroom, and the entertainment room is off-limits to you two. Rule number three: Do not interact with any of the neighbors. Trust me, they are intolerable idiots. Rule number four: You cannot bring any of your friends or family inside my home. It's bad enough that I'm allowing you two to be in there, so don't push it." He throws the packet down on the desk. "You can read the other rules on your own, along with information on how to care for Evita and how to treat my home."

"Are we supposed to clean it too?" Mark inquires.

"I have a maid who comes every Sunday at three in the afternoon to keep my home in shape," Mr. Grey answers. "However, that doesn't mean you can turn it into a total pig sty. If anything breaks, trust me, she'll tell me. She gets paid extra if you two do anything that she believes is out of hands, so don't think you can get away with anything." He pulls a cigar out and lights it. He blows the smoke into their faces, causing them to cough. "I'm done with you," he tells them. He tosses them a set of keys. "These are the keys to my apartment. My family is already gone by now, so you may move in now, and I'll be seeing you again at the end of August." Mark and Roger nod and quickly leave the office.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Roger finds himself in the last place in the world he'd ever expect to be - Westport. More specifically, outside of the Brokeback Apartments. Despite what the name of the complex suggests, the richest of the yuppies and fat cats live inside these lofts. Roger would need to win the lottery five times before being able to even imagine affording the cheapest apartment inside. Now he's spending his summer in the penthouse, all the way on the twenty-third floor of the building. He checks the watch he'd bought off of some street vendor last month. Nine AM. He usually doesn't wake up for another five hours. He heads inside, knowing that he's expected to appear now. Roger enters building, and then the elevator and presses the number twenty-three. The elevator does a tiny jolt before it does its climb to the top. Roger stands in the silence. The elevator jolts again as it slides to a stop. The doors open and Roger steps inside a very elegant loft. There's only one thing that he sees - white. White walls, white ceiling, white couches and tables, white carpets, white marble statues. These people obviously didn't have any taste for color, he decides. The only non-white thing in the room happens to be his future roommate, who is sitting on one of the couches, his hands gripping on the camera in his hands. The boy looks up and sees that he's no longer alone. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stands up, holding out his hand.

"Mark Cohen," he introduces.

Ugh, he's proper. Roger cringes a little inside. He doesn't know how long he'll manage with this kid.

"Roger," he replies, shaking Mark's hand.

A moment of awkward silence passes before Mark smirks. "Your parents just stopped at Roger?" he teases.

Now Roger smirks._ So the little dork is a smart aleck_, he thinks to himself. _Maybe he ain't so bad after all._

"Davis."

"Nice to meet you, Roger Davis." Mark motions to the guitar case in Roger's hand. "You play?"

"A bit, yeah," Roger says. He points to the camera. "You film?"

The albino blonde nods his head. "I'm aspiring to be a documentary videographer."

Roger whistles. "That's a mouthful."

"Well, I checked the cabinets before you came over," Mark babbles. He puts down his camera and wanders into the kitchen. Roger puts down his bags and guitar case before following aimlessly.

"Did you now?" he asks to avoid another awkward silence.

"Yeah. Did you know how much booze they have? Apparently the future son-in-law likes his Stoli. Of course, we'll have to replace some of it, but I'm willing to splurge on it if you are." Mark winks.

Roger grins. He definitely likes this kid. "Trust me, I'll be spending my cash on alcohol no matter what. And I can score us some pot too."

"_Please_ do so! I haven't been stoned in so long!"

The two boys laugh. They sense the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

_Arf! Arf! Arf!_

A white Akita runs into the room. She does a few laps around the living room before noticing the two strangers in the kitchen. She rushes over and jumps up to Mark, knocking him back. Roger's arms shoot out and catch him before he falls. Evita continues to jump until Mark quickly slides off his sneaker and throws it across the room, distracting the dog. She runs into the other room. However, Mark and Roger don't move.

"We're dealing with this all summer?" Roger groans.

"At least we'll have each other to deal with this bullshit," Mark says. He squirms a bit in Roger's grasp. "Uh, Roger? You can let go now..."

"Right!" Without thinking, he pulls his arms out from underneath Mark, and the filmmaker falls to the floor. His head hits the white tiles and he lets out a painful moan.

"Fuck!" he gasps.

"Jeez, shit, man, I'm sorry," Roger says quickly. He holds out his hand. Mark grabs hit and pulls himself to his feet. When he does, they stare into each other's eyes.

_Damn, those eyes_, Roger thinks. _Holy shit, they're so blue. A perfect blue. Like the sky, or the ocean, or a pool. Is there a pool here? Or a hot tub? Any chance to see the rest of Mark naked..._

Then they yank their arms away from each other.

_What the fuck? Get your mind out of the gutter, Davis!_ he scolds himself.

"So, uh, who's gonna sleep out here with the dog the first night?" he asks.

"You wanna?" Mark pleads. "Evita already tried to knock me down once." He pouts his lips. Roger tries to think of a good counter to his statement, but then he's lost in Mark's eyes again.

"Damn it, fine, you win," he caves. "But we're alternating nights. No way in hell am I staying with that demon all the time."

"Thank you thank you thank you!" Mark cries. He gives Roger a quick hug before reaching into a cabinet. "Wanna celebrate having a terrible summer together?" He holds up a bottle of Stoli.

Roger nods vigorously. "Hell yeah."

* * *

"So, you're the maid?" Mark asks the girl who shows up on Sunday. He remembers reading that she comes every week to keep everything in order.

"Yep," she replies. The maid is a tiny Asian girl with two long braids at th top of her head walking around in a fuzzy pink bra and jeans.

"Dude, she looks like a prostitute," Roger hisses in Mark's ear. He stifles a giggle and shoves him aside lightly.

"I'm just glad that they're not around," the girl continues.

"Are they bad people, uh..." Mark doesn't know her name; Mr. Grey never told them what it is.

"Aiko," she says, as if she can read his mind. "Or, as the Greys call me, Little Girl. They rarely call me by my name. I think the last time they did was when they read over my resume. It's just the mister, the misses, their daughter, and her fiancé. The fiancé treats me like I'm a human, but the others just boss me around like I'm there to wait on them hand and foot more than two hours a week. I don't know what made you want to work for such assholes."

"Because we have all summer to drink and smoke and live among the scummiest yuppies of them all," Roger tells her, holding up a beer bottle.

"Is scummiest even a word?" Mark asks.

"Beats me, I'm drunk."

Mark nods and offers Aiko a beer. "Sit down," he says. "You could use a break."

"You're telling me," she grunts. She plops down on the couch next to the boys. "You guys aren't that bad."

Mark smiles. He looks over at Roger, who just drinks his beer in silence.

* * *

Mark taps his foot on the floor. Roger was supposed to be back an hour ago from taking Evita on a walk. They agreed the first week to have meals together so the food would last longer. Now Mark's stomach is growling, it's nearly seven o' clock, and Roger is nowhere to be found. He does the one thing that he always does when he's alone.

"Zoom in on the empty penthouse," he narrates as he pans his camera across the room. "Roger said he'd be back by now with that damn Akita, but he isn't. Did he get hit by a car or decided to sell the dog with some street vendors downtown? No one knows. All I can tell you is that I'm gonna give him a piece of my mind when I see him-"

He turns around to see Roger stumble inside the apartment. A large cut is on his forehead, dry blood caked to the side of his head. Mark nearly drops his camera. Evita runs into the apartment and curls up beside the window, unphased by her keeper's injury.

"Good God, Roger," Mark gasps. "What happened?"

"Damn dog got spooked by a Great Dane," Roger grumbles. "I tried calming her down, and she swiped her paw at me." He collapses onto the couch. "She knocked me down a few times too. I was about to let her loose, but I need the cash, and I wasn't gonna get you in trouble too."

"Well, damn, Roger, you should be worried about yourself!" Mark goes into the kitchen and grabs a towel. He dampens it with tap water and moves closely beside Roger. Ever so gently, he presses the towel against the gash.

Roger winces in pain and tries to keep tears from flowing.

Mark, not wanting to see Roger in pain, winces as well.

* * *

Roger wakes up early in the morning the next day, Evita licking his face as if to apologize. He doesn't want to be near her, not after what she did yesterday. He pushes her away, and she gets the message, padding into the kitchen and lying on the floor, panting. Roger pulls himself to his feet and drags himself toward the bathroom. He needs to take a piss really bad for some reason. He's about to open the door when he heard water running. Mark must be up already; somehow, the boy's a morning person, something Roger doesn't understand.

"Hey, Mark, you in there?" he shouts through the wood.

"Yeah," the muffle reply comes. "Why?"

"I need to piss."

"Then take a piss. I don't care."

Roger shrugs and opens the door. A cloud of steam greets him, making him wake up a little more. He makes his way to the toilet and does his business. As he's relieving himself, he can't help but look through the clear door to see Mark rubbing a bar of soap across his body. Roger bites his bottom lip, longing to be in the shower with him.

He quickly leaves before Mark finishes.

* * *

"Can you play anything else?" Mark wonders.

"Nope," Roger answers. His fingers pluck at the same strings they have for the past two weeks. At this point, Mark has this unnamed tune memorized, and it's now starting to annoy him.

"Didn't you say you were in a band before?" he asks.

"Yeah, once," Roger mumbles. He continues to play.

"Well, maybe you should play one of your old songs," Mark suggests.

"Nah, I don't remember them."

He sighs. "Just my luck." He turns on his camera and films the guitarist out of sheer boredom.


	3. Chapter 3

Mark watches as Roger tries to stand up. So far, he's successfully on all fours, but he hasn't been able to stand on just two feet yet. They'd celebrated the third week anniversary of living in the Greys' penthouse by drinking something a little more special than wine, beer, and Stoli - tequila. They'd done about ten shots before remembering that Evita was able to knock over the alcohol, so they found gates made to keep the daughter from sleepwalking into the main rooms and blockaded the Akita in the kitchen. She'd fallen asleep after spending a good ten minutes yapping at them.

"Fuck," Mark moans. "How do you control the AC thingy?"

"Shi- I dunno," Roger slurs. "Ih's my turn to sleep out here."

"Roger, it's fifty degrees in here," the filmmaker points out. "You'll freeze out here."

"Sh'nah, I'll be 'kay." Roger is finally able to stand upright. He pushes Mark toward the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. "Night night, Mark."

"Goodnight, Roger," Mark replies. He heads off to the bedroom.

First he sits at the edge and pulls off his sneakers. He decides to leave his socks on, along with his jeans, green Scarsdale High School Class of '83 shirt, and light brown hoodie. He places his glasses on the nightstand. He crawls under the covers and tries to keep warm. Because Mr. Grey didn't tell them how to control the AC, they have no choice but to freeze or overheat, depending on whatever setting it chooses at any given moment. Tonight, it chooses to be freezing. Mark tosses and turns in the sheets, but he can't help but feel chilly. He looks at the clock on the nightstand. He's been like this for two hours. He sits up and puts on his glasses. Through the dim lighting, Mark can see that Roger is shivering on the couch. The rocker has on a tank top, plaid button up shirt, and jeans. Mark shakes his head. Neither brought sweaters, not thinking they would need it. Apparently, yuppies like arctic temperatures.

"Jesus Christ, quit hammering and get over here," he calls out to Roger. "Bed's big enough."

Roger doesn't protest. Breaking Mr. Grey's rule, he rushes into the bedroom and climbs under the covers next to Mark. Neither seem to be uncomfortable as they fall asleep.

* * *

Mark opens his eyes. It's still dark out. He turns his head and squints his eyes at the clock. 4:43. _Fuck_. He's lying on his side. For some reason, he feels something unfamiliar wrapped around his waist. He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Roger, who's fast asleep. During the night, they began spooning. Mark doesn't want to push Roger off. He's very comfortable in this position.

_God, he's beautiful,_ Mark thinks. _Too beautiful. Damn this school girl crush. You're the geek, he's the star. No way he'd go for a dork like you. He's definitely straight. But what if...?_

Mark decides to test this out. He moves one of his hands over Roger's. The other boy doesn't wake up. He takes it to the next level and moves the large calloused hand toward his groin.

That wakes Roger up.

He snatches his arms away and sits up on his knees. Mark does the same. Roger tries to fight off Mark's flailing arms and the covers, but when Mark's hand stays on his shoulder. They stare into each other's eyes, both daring the other to make the first move. It's Mark who does. He strips off his hoodie, not breaking eye contact. They both roughly grab each other, pulling their bodies close and their fingers gripping the other's shirt. Their lips are barely an inch apart, their noses pressed together, their hands running through the other's hair. Mark lets go of Roger and starts to undo his belt, then his button and zipper. Roger flips Mark over on all fours and tries to undo his pants at a rapid pace. He yanks down Mark's jeans, biting his lip as he gets a perfect view of Mark's pale rear. He grunts and spits into the palm of his hand and puts it on his hardening member as makeshift lube. Roger pushes himself into Mark, grabbing the back of his shirt with one hand and trying to keep himself up with the other on the wall. Mark clutches the sheets and pants hard. Roger thrusts in and out at a steady, rough pace, Mark's body moving forward and back, the sound of their skin hitting together heard along with their grunts and moans. Mark makes a fist and pounds against the mattress; as painful as it was, he felt bliss with it. Roger shudders as he comes, hugging Mark's body close to his. Both boys collapse onto the bed, drenched in sweat, and rather than cuddle together as most lovers would, fall back to sleep almost instantly.

* * *

Roger is the first to wake up in the morning. He opens his eyes slowly and shields them from the sun. He looks over to see Mark lying next to him in bed. The hem of his shirt was lifted up and his pants were around his knees, revealing himself to Roger, who does enjoy the view. He looks down at himself and sees that his pants are just as low as Mark's. He pulls them back up and redoes them. He rolls out of bed and gives Mark one last look before exiting the bedroom to let the dog out.


	4. Chapter 4

One week later, Mark and Roger still haven't talked about their spontaneous bout of rough sex. They act as if nothing had ever happened. Almost all communication stops between the boys. They go through the next week in silence, except for at night, when they lock up Evita and crawl into bed together to go at it again. They don't ever kiss or hug. It becomes a process: take care of the dog, no matter how much of a pain in the ass she becomes; eat dinner, smoke pot, and drink liquor; one boy goes to the bedroom, the other spends a few more minutes with Evita before blockading her in the kitchen for the evening; the second boy goes into the bedroom; Roger always ends up ripping off his and Mark's clothes and they have sex; in the morning, they wake up and put their clothes back on; then the process is repeated. Whenever Mark tries to look Roger in the eye during the day, he looks away. When Aiko arrives on Sunday to clean up the house, she takes notice of the silence between the boys, but she doesn't ask questions, especially when Mark offers her a beer when she finishes.

One night, Roger is sitting on the couch, his hand around the neck of a beer bottle. Mark sits next to him, scooting close enough that their legs are touching.

"One shot thing we got goin' here," Roger mumbles to him.

"One shot thing," Mark repeats glumly. He pauses and adds, "Nobody's business but ours."

Roger nods. "I'm not queer."

"Me either," Mark blurts.

Roger nods again. Mark looks over at him and rests his head on Roger's shoulder. The older boy thinks about protesting, but instead just drinks his beer and lets it happen.

* * *

The next week, Aiko comes into the apartment on her own. Usually, the boys let her in (at least, they have the past three times she'd shown up) but today they aren't in sight. She assumes that they're walking Evita and begins to dust around the living room. Once she's satisfied with her work, she checks the clock. It'd been thirty minutes, and no appearance by the boys. She goes into the kitchen and is greeted by Evita.

"What are you doing here?" Aiko asks the dog, who responds by licking the palm of her hand. "Where's Mark and Roger?" She scratches Evita's head and wanders around a bit in search of the two boys. She hears thumping and jumps back in the kitchen. Peering around the corner, she can see Mark and Roger stumble out of the bedroom.

"Damn," Roger grunts as Mark's hands work at stripping him. Aiko wants to shield her eyes in embarrassment, but she can't help watching them tear off each other's clothes and stumble into the bathroom nude.

"Oh my," she says in a stunned silence. She remembers vaguely Mr. Grey ordering her to report any suspicious activity between them. Was a relationship a part of suspicious activity?

"_Fuck!_" She can hear Mark's whimpers and cries and a banging sound against the door.

_Screw cleaning, I can't be around for the rest of this_.

Aiko grabs her things and runs out the door. She'll just clean next week.

* * *

Mark loves Roger.

He knows that Roger said he isn't queer, and of course, he isn't either. There's no way he's a goddamn queer. But he does love Roger like he loved Nanette Himmelfarb freshman year. He wants to know Roger, to kiss Roger, to spend every waking minute with him. Instead, he's on his hands and knees, making a fist and moaning as Roger has his way with him. It's not that he hates this - he _loves_ it when Roger fucks him - he just hates how he's treated afterwards.

Roger comes and pulls out. Mark flops onto his stomach. He looks over and sees Roger stand up and walk into the bathroom. He can hear the water from the shower running.

Mark can't stand this treatment. They haven't said more than twenty words to each other within the past ten days. He doesn't want to be ignored anymore. He waits a minute to collect himself before standing up and padding into the bathroom. Roger's in the shower, just standing under the water. Mark opens the door and steps in.

"Mark?" Roger asks. "What are you doing?"

"I don't want you to take this wrong," Mark says, "but..."

He stands on his toes (he hasn't hit that final growth spurt, so he's much shorter than Roger) and plants one soft kiss on Roger's lips. He pulls away and fears Roger's reaction.

"I'm not queer," he says quickly. "I just-!"

He's cut off by Roger, who presses their mouths together violently. Mark's eyes widen and he doesn't move anything but his mouth and tongue, which forces itself into Roger's mouth. All this time, he'd wanted this, and now, he has it.

"Are we a thing?" Roger asks between kisses.

"Darling, we're everything," Mark answers.

* * *

"Hey, Aiko," Mark greets the maid when she arrives the following Sunday.

"H-hi," Aiko responds. She tries her hardest to remain nonchalant when only one week ago she'd seen him kissing another man - Roger, of all guys. She remembers Roger talking about getting married in November to a dancer, who happens to be a girl. But when she saw the two men together, she was lost.

"What happened to you last week?" Mark asks. He hands her a beer.

"What do you mean?" Did they see her?

"You never came," the filmmaker says.

"_Oh_." Aiko lets out a nervous laugh. "I got some stomach virus from my sister."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, look, it's Aiko!" Roger says as he comes into the room. "I haven't seen you in a while!"

Aiko stares at him. "Hello, Roger," she greets him. Roger has never spoken to her before.

"I missed you!" He hugs Aiko tight and whistles at Evita. "I'm gonna walk the dog."

"I'm going to the drug store," Mark says. "I'm running low on... things."

"You guys have fun," Aiko says with a fake smile. She waits until they leave before rushing over to the phone.

_I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be doing this. These are my friends. The only people here who treat me like a person. Who give me alcohol on the job. They're not doing anything wrong. They're two guys in love. But I know they're going against Mr. Grey. He said I'd get a huge bonus if I report any suspicious activity between them. I really need the money..._

She gulps and dials the ten digits she was left.

_I'm so sorry, Mark and Roger._

After three rings, she hears Mr. Grey's voice. "_Hello?_"

"Mr. Grey? There's something you should know about Mark Cohen and Roger Davis."

"_What? Is Evita okay? Alison will be furious if they hurt her!_"

"No, Evita's fine. She loves them, actually. It's about the relationship between them, actually..."


	5. Chapter 5

"Roger?" Mark asks in a small voice late in the night.

"Yeah?" Roger responds.

"I don't know you."

"Sure you do."

"No, I mean _really_ know you. Like your family and your life before we met. Maybe past lovers...?"

Roger smirks. "What, you wanna know if they were better in bed than you?"

"No." Mark's face turns bright red. "I just was curious, and I..."

"It's okay, Marky." It's Roger's pet name for Mark. Of course, he doesn't want to have one of his own, but he thinks Mark needs one.

"I don't date much," he begins. "The only girl before you was April, and she was a really cool chick. She was into some messed up shit, but she didn't know any better. Night clubs, sleeping around, drugs and alcohol... you name it, she did it. I was the dumbass who put up with it. I was too in love with her to understand. Then my aunt found out about her and bribed her to dump me. Sure, I was broken-hearted, and I will probably never forgive my aunt for doing that, but it was for the best, I guess.

"My parents were these awesome rock musicians. They weren't national idols, but in the city, there wasn't a person who hadn't heard of them. They always had gigs at places like the Pyramid Club and CGBG's. When I was really little, they would let me go backstage and watch. Their manager would always bring me soda and chips and tell me when it was alright to cheer." He chuckles. "I ran onstage once. They'd played their last song for the night, and I had always felt like I needed to be out there. The stage was calling my name. So I ran up there and right into my mother's arms. I was in trouble with their manager, but my dad grabbed his guitar and let me sing along to an extra song.

"I was just about to turn nine when I saw those bruises on my dad's neck. I asked what they were, and he just lied and said that it meant he was playing too much guitar. I just went along with it. Then he ended up in the hospital. I kept on asking if everything was okay. I mean, he was turning grey and had those bruises all over his body. He couldn't even move his lips at most points. But he just kept on nodding and telling me that he'd be out soon. Next thing I knew, he was gone. I could barely make it through the funeral. My mom was devastated too.

"That was when I noticed her taking these pills constantly. Every five or so hours, she'd be taking one. I wanted to know what they were and why she needed them. She just kept on blowing me off and pushing me away. Finally, I started asking other people. Relatives, mostly. Then I asked my fourth grade teacher. She was surprised, but she told me what it was called. I told her that my mom took this, this AZT. After that, my teacher said nothing to me. I confessed to my mom, and she broke down and told me the truth. She was dying. My dad went through the same thing. I started crying with her. When she went to bed later, I saw a bruise on her, just like my dad did.

"When she was gone, I moved in with my aunt. That damn bitch couldn't give two shits about me. She let me live with her until I graduated. No way she'd let me back, especially when she figured out I was dating April. She did feel bad and send me a few hundred dollars once or twice a month. About a few months ago, she decided to make my life 'easier' and arranged for me to marry her friend's daughter. Mimi Marquez. She's a dancer who's my age. I've never met her in person, but I've got a picture of her."

Roger reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dark leather wallet. He opens it and shows Mark a picture of a tiny Latina girl with wild curls and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"She's pretty," Mark says quietly. He feels a jab of jealousy. There's a threatening look about this Mimi girl. She's prettier. She looks much more lively and wild in comparison to Mark. He wonders how flexible she was from all the dancing she supposedly does.

Roger kisses his forehead.

And Mark remembers that he has one thing that she doesn't: Roger's love.

"What about you?" Roger asks. "I don't know much about you."

"You want to hear about my life in a typical Jewish household in Scarsdale?"

The songwriter wrinkles his nose. "Ew, no thanks!"

* * *

Roger bites down on his pen and plays a few more chords. He hums the lyrics to himself and tries to figure out what words come next. He hums a few different rhyming possibilities before coming up with the right one. He takes the pen out of his mouth and quickly jots it down. He's almost done writing his new song. It's the opportunity he needs to get further in life with his music career. He wants to show Mark before they leave in less than six weeks.

Last week, Mr. Grey's daughter called and said that Roger's aunt suddenly became ill. He was allowed to take a week off to go and see if she would be okay. Fortunately, his pay wasn't affected. In the end, his aunt was okay. It was just the flu. But when he was saying goodbye to Mark before he left, there was something in his eyes that were begging Roger to stay. It affected him. When he had the chance, he started working on his new song. There are scribbles and lines across the pages of the dog-eared notebook. He wants - no, _needs_ - the song to be absolutely perfect.

"Mark!" he calls out. "Come here for a minute!"

"Roger, I need to get a shower!" Mark shouts to him. "My walk with Evita got a little rough."

"You can get a shower after this, now get your pale ass in here!"

Mark walks into the bedroom, mud across his shirt and the front of his jeans. His glasses rest crookedly on his face. Leaves and tiny twigs are in his hair. "She might've dragged me through the park a bit," he explains when Roger raises an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," Roger says sympathetically. "I think I've got something that might lift your spirits."

"Hire someone to kill the dog?"

"Better." Roger begins playing his new song. Mark sits on the edge of the bed and watches him as he sings:

"_Your eyes  
As we said our goodbyes  
Can't get them out of my mind  
And I find I can't hide  
From your eyes  
The ones that took me by surprise  
The night you came into my life  
Where there's moonlight I see your eyes  
How'd I let you slip away  
When I'm longing so to hold you  
Now I'd die for one more day  
'Cause there's something I should have told you  
Yes there's something I should have told you  
When I looked into your eyes  
Why does distance make us wise?  
You were the song all along  
And before this song dies  
I should tell you I should tell you  
I have always loved you  
You can see it in my eyes..._"

Roger plays Musetta's Waltz as he ends the song. He looks up at Mark. Tears are flowing out of the filmmaker's eyes.

"So... do you like it?" he asks, his voice slightly cracking. Mark smiles and throws his arms around Roger. He plants a kiss on his lips.

"I fucking love it," he says with a grin.

"Great." Roger looks down and sees mud smeared on his shirt. "Aw, Mark, really?"

"Well, damn, I guess you shouldn't wear a dirty shirt..." Mark unbutton's Roger's shirt and slides it off his shoulders, kissing the bare skin as he does.

"In that case, then you should get rid of your dirty clothes too," Roger growls. He takes off Mark's shirt and pants and stares at the almost-naked filmmaker greedily.

"How about that shower I was talking about?" Mark suggests.

"Lets." Roger picks up Mark and they laugh as he brings them both into the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6

Two Sundays before the Greys are supposed to return from the Hamptons, Aiko comes to clean, as usual. She hesitates as she takes the private elevator that leads to the inside of the penthouse. Mark and Roger are still clueless that she knows they're a thing. Roger plays off being a straight man well, and hasn't been able to stop talking about his future wife Mimi when she's around (yes, Roger now talks to her on purpose). However, Mark is definitely in between, a three or four on the Kinsey Scale. When she's cleaning the apartment while both men are in the same room as her, she can feel the sexual tension lingering in the air. It makes her want to run out of the room before the two men pounce on each other and do what she saw the first time she realized they're together.

Unfortunately, Mr. Grey knows what's happening as well. He lost it when Aiko confessed to him on the phone weeks ago. He said to "get those fags out" of his penthouse before he returns home. Last night, he told her that a tropical storm in Florida is predicted to transform into a hurricane, and its path happens to hit the Hamptons. Therefore, the family is coming home in three days. Mark and Roger are supposed to already have left. Now she's finally going to tell them that they have to go.

Today, when she walks in, she does her normal job, as usual. It's Mark's turn to walk Evita, and while he's gone, Roger is playing his guitar. At some point, towards the end of her work, he asks her if there's any songs Aiko likes from the radio, leading to the two of them to having a full-out karaoke session when Mark comes home.

"Uh, what's going on?" he asks when Roger and Aiko choke on the lyrics to an old Queen song.

"We were singing," Aiko answers honestly.

"I can tell." Mark unclasps the leash from Evita's collar, and the white dog runs to the window to bark at the birds gathering on a nearby telephone wire.

"So, we'll see you next week, right?" Roger says, smiling at his new friend.

"Uh, about that..." Aiko sits on the couch. "Mark, you may want to sit down for this."

He does. "Is everything alright?"

"Mr. Grey wants you to leave," she confesses. "Actually, he wanted you to leave weeks ago."

"What?" Roger cries. "How long have you been hiding this from us?"

"It doesn't matter. I haven't told you because I knew that it'd be a while before they would return from their vacation, but a supposed hurricane is forcing them to return Wednesday. I'm gonna stay here with Evita, but I suggest that you guys pack your bags and leave now."

"Why does he want us to leave?" Mark interrogates.

"I don't know," Aiko lies. "But please, you need to listen. The sooner you two leave, the better. There's no time to lose."

"Fine," the two men grunt. They begrudgingly rise to their feet and head off to pack their belongings.

* * *

"I can't believe I left my damn pick up there," Roger murmurs to himself as he pulls up to a large white house on a cul-de-sac in the middle of a suburban neighborhood in Scarsdale. After he and Mark left, he volunteered to bring the filmmaker home. Most of the ride, they remained silent, the only sound coming from the mixtape April had made him long ago. Halfway to Mark's house, they simultaneously reached out and took each other's hand, holding on tight as if they were about to be pulled apart. In a sense, they are.

"You gonna do this again next summer?" Mark asks in a distant tone.

"Maybe not," Roger answers. "Like I said, Mimi and I's getting married in November. Be trying to get something on a loft. You?"

"I might come back, if nothing better comes along. Thought some about buying a place Greenwich Village during the winter, moving there after my spring semester." Mark smiles weakly. "If I don't stay up at Brown."

Roger stares straight out the front windshield. "Well, see you around, I guess."

"Right."

The two shake hands and slowly pull apart. Mark grabs his bags out of the backseat and gets out of Roger's car. The songwriter stays parked and watches the smaller boy walk up to the front door. Before entering, he turns and offers one last smile before disappearing inside. Roger shakes his head and drives away.

Mark watches him go from the front window. Soon, Roger's car is out of sight.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a guitar pick.

* * *

Roger can't believe where he's at right now. He looks at his side of the room. Old bandmates, few remaining family members, including his aunt, and, of course, Aiko, are sitting on the church benches, smiling at him. He gazes at the right side of the room. A bunch of unknown Hispanic people are bunched together, beaming, along with a handful of pale dancers. Behind him, his best man, a high school friend and neighbor, stands patiently. Opposite of the best man is the maid of honor, a girl with a large chest, revealing dress, and makeup completely covering her face, a fake smile as she clutches two bouquets of white lilies. In front of Roger is his bride, the lovely Mimi Marquez. She's much more beautiful than the picture portrayed. Her JC Penney dress accentuates every curve on her small body. The deep brown eyes concealed by the white tulle veil have been locked on Roger ever since she stepped into the room. The nervous green eyes of the rocker have been wandering, but whenever they land on Mimi's, he feels a wave of relaxation.

Now he's glad his aunt set them up.

* * *

"What the hell kind of dance studio is called the Cat Scratch Club?" Roger wonders aloud as he drives down the street. Mimi had said last night that she wanted Roger to see her perform. At the time, he thought it was a dance recital full of girls in tutus twirling on their toes. When he saw the envelope of cash and note with directions to where Mimi would be, he hadn't been too sure if he would be seeing a dance recital anymore.

He pulls into the parking lot outside of a club. Neon lights display the name, Cat Scratch Club, with pictures of women in slightly provocative poses. Roger frowns. When his aunt said that she set him up with a dancer, this isn't what he expected. He pulls the envelope out of the glovebox and looks inside. All ones. He pockets the cash and heads inside the Cat Scratch. He chooses a seat near the stage. A girl with long blonde hair is dancing around a pole with almost no clothing covering her. Roger recognizes her as one of the girls at his wedding.

"Hey you," one of the waitresses, the maid of honor, greets as she spots him. "You coming to see your girl work her magic?"

"Well, when she said she dances, I didn't really expect... this," he admits. The slobbering businessmen around him makes him grimace. He doesn't want these pigs ogling his wife.

"She's the best," the girl says. "You'll understand when you see her go up. She should be in a few minutes. In the meantime, anything I can get you to drink?"

"Beer."

"Coming up." The waitress bounces off. Roger sighs and watches the stage. The blonde girl struts off, looking over his shoulder at the men and occasionally pausing to let men slip dollar bills into the strings of her panties.

"Alright, alright, everyone, let's give one final round of applause to Jess!" the DJ announces. The men woot and holler and a few whistle. Roger rolls his eyes in disgust. "Now, we have a real champ here. She's the one to make everyone get all hot and bothered when they see what she does. Performing her famous lawnchair handcuff dance, to the sounds of iced tea being stirred, give it up for Mimi!"

Roger watches as his wife walks onto a catwalk above the stage, a leopard-print robe covering her body. She pulls the string around her waist and lets the robe pool on the floor, revealing a very small bikini top and boy shorts, leaving very little to the imagination. She grabs the pole in front of her and slides down. Towards the bottom, she grips the pole with her thighs and hangs upside-down, her breasts almost popping out. Men started cheering for her. Roger has to admit to himself that Mimi looks pretty hot on that stage. She steadies herself on the ground and lies down on a lawnchair placed on the stage. Two other girls handcuff the Latina to the armrests. When she does a split-eagle before straddling the chair, Roger becomes transfixed by the thin piece of fabric covering her.

"You enjoying the show?" the waitress asks, handing Roger a bottle of beer.

"Uh huh," Roger answers.

"I can tell." She giggles. "You've been drooling ever since she started sliding down the pole."

When she walks away, Roger wipes off the drool with his sleeve and continues to watch his sexy wife dance for the crowd.

* * *

Mark follows the secretary through the maze of hallways to Mr. Grey's office inside the Cyberarts studio. His first year at Brown hadn't been too bad, but he's considering dropping out. He prefers independent film than filming some burnout doing a wheelie on his bike for a project. He needs another summer job, and he wouldn't mind dogsitting Evita again. The secretary points to a door at the end of a hallways and walks away. Mark knocks a couple of times before entering. He's greeted by the smoke of a cigar. Mr. Grey sits at the same desk he remembers from the prior year. The look on his face is less than welcoming.

"Well, look what the wind blew in," he says.

"Hello, Mr. Grey," Mark greets. He pauses before continuing, "I was wondering if you were needing any help this summer?"

"You're wasting your time here," Mr. Grey says as he drags on the cigar in his hand.

"You don't have anything? Nothing up on Brokeback?"

Mr. Grey looks up at him, a dark look in his eyes. "I don't have any work for you."

Mark nods solemnly, absent-mindedly toying with his camera. He starts for the door, but stops to ask, "Roger Davis didn't come here, did he?"

Mr. Grey glares coolly at Mark. He blows out a puff of smoke. "You boys sure found a way to make the time pass up there."

Mark gulps. _How the hell does he know about Roger and me?! No one else was there, expect Evita and Aiko..._ It hits him. The Sunday when Aiko wasn't there. While Roger was stripping him in the hallway outside the bathroom, he could've sworn someone was staring at them. And the living room was in order. He thought it was just him. Now he knows that Aiko had lied; she saw them and ratted them out. No wonder she wanted them to leave so fast.

"Cohen, you guys weren't getting paid to let the maid care for the dog while you stemmed the rose," Mr. Grey states. "Get the hell out of my office."

Mark nods and leaves the office calmly. But when he walks out of the main lobby, he knocks over a wire rack full of papers and throws a chair to make a statement. The workers just watch him with little care or emotion.

* * *

A loud coughing and wheezing echoes through the loft. Roger, who is halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, stops and stands up. He slowly makes his way through the dark apartment into his daughters' room. Inside a bassinet, eleven-month-old baby Joanne is coughing, her body shaking with each hack. Joanne was born with asthma, and they could barely afford the medication to treat it. Roger picks her up and cradles her. As he rocks her, two-year-old Angel toddles across the room from her bed and hugs his leg.

"You get back in bed now, darlin'," he tells her, patting her head. Angel obeys, waddling back to her bed and crawling under the covers. Joanne is placed back in her bassinet, now asleep, and Roger kneels next to his older daughter's bed.

"You be a good girl for your mama tomorrow, and I'll take you into the city this weekend and get you an ice cream," he promises. He kisses her forehead. Angel smiles; she's a very good child, meaning that the promise will more than likely be fulfilled. Roger smiles at Angel and walks back to his room. Mimi, who's lying over the covers in a tiny sheer nightgown, stares at Roger.

"Girls alright?" she asks.

Roger nods. "Joanne stopped her coughing. I told Angel we'd go into the city this weekend."

"Roger, can't we just move to the city?" Mimi whines. She studies his face a bit. "I'm tired of these shitty apartments. I'm scared for our baby. Scared that we're too far from the doctor. What if she has one of those bad asthma spells."

Roger slips a hand under Mimi's nightgown and rests his hand on her upper thigh. "I guess."

"You could work the bar again."

"We'll have to talk about that."

"There's a little apartment in Manhattan. It's by a laundromat, so it's probably cheaper. I bet I could fix it up real nice. Angel's almost two now, she needs to be in the city, close to other kids."

Roger nods, his hands now reaching her breast. It descends down her body, running lightly over her belly. "I have no objection, long as it's cheap and I don't have to do any laundry." His hand slips down the front of her panties. Mimi hugs him close, shuddering as she feels his fingers running over her. She squirms against him and kisses him hard.

Suddenly, she's rolled onto her stomach.

"Roger..." Mimi starts to protest. She knows by now it's no use as Roger pulls down her panties. She hates this. She doesn't know why though.

In Roger's mind, Mimi is now Mark.

* * *

"Hey," Mark greets his roommate, Benny, as he comes home from another long day of tedious classes.

"Hey yourself," Benny replies. "How was today?"

"I swear, my Professor is trying to fail me."

Benny laughs. "Yeah, Mr. Meyer can be a total pain in the ass sometimes." There's a moment of silence before Benny asks, "Hey, you hear about that protest?"

"What protest?" Mark's slightly interested by this.

"Yeah, some girl in the theater area is pissed at corporate America. More specifically, the dean for cutting down the art department's flow."

"I don't blame her. He's a total dick."

"Yeah. I was gonna go. You coming?"

Mark hesitates. Other than Benny, Mark rarely socializes with others on campus. The only time he goes out in public is to film or study at the campus library. He's known as That Jewish Nerd with the Scarf by his peers. Going out would possibly mean having to communicate with a bunch of couch potatoes he doesn't know. However, the camera in his hands gives him the idea to film it, possibly for extra credit in his class.

"Sure, why not."

* * *

"... Ever since the cat took up the fiddle, that cow's been... jumpy. And the dish and the spoon were evicted from the table - and eloped! She's had trouble with that milk and the moon ever since. Maybe it's a... female thing!"

The performer, Maureen Johnson, grabs her breasts, earning some cheers from her peers.

"The only way out is up! _A leap of faith!_"

Mark is under the spell of this diva. She's had his undivided attention ever since this started. He's been filming her this whole time. He wants to get some of the audience's reaction as well, but he isn't able to move the lens away from her. She is made to be filmed by him. There's something about her - her presence, her doe eyes, those pouty lips, the eccentric and wild characteristics - that makes him fall in love with her ever second.

"Moo with me," she tells the audience. At first, only one person does. "Yes, who was that? C'mon, moo!" Now more people moo. Of course they do, Mark tells himself. Who wouldn't listen to a beautiful girl? "Moo! Moo! _Moo!_" Mark laughs as Benny joins in with the mooing. Maureen grins. "Thank you!" she screams.

"Shit!" Benny hisses. Mark looks over to see campus security come into the old abandoned theater.

"Fuck," he whispers. Now he turns his camera away from the stage performer to see the security try to usher students out of the theater. One boy decides to shove one of them off, and soon, a riot breaks out among the crowd. Mark continues to film for another minute until Benny shouts that he's found an escape route. Mark puts his camera away hastily and followed Benny. Halfway through the crowd, someone falls into him. Mark catches the victim, and to his surprise, it's Maureen.

"Mark, come on!" Benny shouts. "Move your ass!"

"Come it me if you don't want to get arrested," Mark tells Maureen. She nods and takes his hand as they follow Benny through the stage door. Soon, they're outside in the woods separating the theater from the rest of the campus.

"Thanks," Maureen says. She smiles at Mark. "I'm Maureen Johnson."

"Mark Cohen." Mark shakes her hand. The two stare at each other, smiling as they're lost in each other's eyes.

"Guys, we might wanna get a move on if you don't want to get discovered out here," Benny warns. Mark and Maureen look away from each other and nod in agreement. They follow Benny through the trees. They still hold each other's hand.


	7. Chapter 7

"Daddy!" Angel and Joanne cries as Roger walked through the door. Angel runs to him and latches onto his pant leg, the scent of alcohol unnoticed. Joanne, who's now two, toddles over to him. A smile grows on Roger's face when he sees his two daughters.

Mimi looks over from the kitchen as she stirs a pot of gravy. "Roger, you know somebody named Mark from Rhode Island?"

Roger stops halfway to picking up Joanne. "I might," he replies. "Why?"

Mimi gestures to the kitchen table. "You got a postcard. It came General Delivery."

Joanne jumps up in an attempt to receive her father's attention. Instead, he ignores her and gently pries Angel off his leg. He makes a beeline for the table and picks up the postcard resting on it, just as Mimi said. A picture of Brown University covers the front. He flips it over to see Mark's handwriting across the blank area.

_Friend this letter is long over due. Hope you get it. Heard you were in Alphabet City. I'm coming through on the 24th, though I'd stop and buy you a beer. Drop me a line if you can, say if you're there._

Roger's hand shakes as he rereads the postcard. Mimi, who's too busy teaching Angel how to cook, doesn't take notice of her husband's reaction.

"Is he somebody you toured with, or what?" she asks.

Roger puts down the postcard and picks up Joanne. "Mark films, mostly," he says as he bounces Joanne in his arms. "We were performing buddies..."

"Daddy! Daddy!" Angel cries. "I colored a pretty picture for you!" She jumps onto the floor from the stool she had pulled over by the stove. She vanishes into her room and soon returns with a picture of a flower.

"Wow, Angel, that's a really good drawing," Roger says. He means it; the drawing is very impressive for a four-year-old girl.

"Pwe-ty," Joanne gurgles. Her tiny hands reach out for the paper. Angel beams.

* * *

Roger picks out a postcard with a picture of Broadway at night, the neon and chrome shining on the plastic front. He pulls a pen out of his back and copies the address he wrote on his hand earlier. In the blank are, he wrote two words:

**You bet.**

He signs his name and pays for the postcard. Outside, he casually drops it in the blue metal mailbox as he walks to work.

* * *

Roger stands by the window, dragging on a cigarette nervously. He'd worked extra hours this week to earn this night off. The tips he made are going to help pay for the night he and Mark are about to share together. After over four years of not seeing Mark, he doesn't know what'll happen when they reunite. Mimi can sense that there's something special about this Mark guy; for once, Roger put on something other than plaid pants and oversized shirts, and is now wearing a tight grey tank top and torn jeans, an improvement compared to usual. Angel and Joanne don't take notice, and are currently playing a game of tag in the living room. Mimi fans herself with a magazine and bites her lip.

"Maybe we could get a baby-sitter, take your friend to the Life Café," she suggests. "It's too hot to cook anyway."

"Mark isn't the restaurant type," Roger tells her. "We'll more than likely just go out and get drunk." He pauses before adding, "If he shows."

Mimi sighs and pulls a cigarette from her skirt pocket. She lights it and takes a drag, exhaling slowly. She sits on the couch and moves her legs so she doesn't accidentally trip Joanne as she's chased by Angel.

A beat up blue car pulls up across the street. Roger smiles as a familiar figure steps out of the car.

* * *

Mark steps out of the car and immediately starts filming the homeless up and down the street. He's fascinated by the city.

About one month ago, Benny invited him to stay with him and his wife for a week during their break. Mark agreed, only because the other option he had was to stay with his parents. Maureen planned to fly out to Toronto with her theater friends to see shows. While planning what bars to see, Mark remembered Roger and looked him up. He sent a postcard, and when he received one in return, he was ecstatic. While Benny goes with his wife to visit her family for a few days, Mark has permission to borrow his car, enjoy himself and see the city.

Now he's standing outside of the apartment Roger lives in, filming his surroundings.

He looks much different from the young kid he was all those years ago. He finally hit that growth spurt his mother constantly reminded him about, now a miraculous three and a half inches taller. His pasty white skin has a bit of a tan now. Maureen is to thank for that - she insisted to always take him to the beach, and there was no way he could resist watching Maureen running around in a tiny two-piece. It's late-April, so he's finally decided to not wear a sweater, and settled for a new salmon t-shirt and light denim jeans that are a bit too tight, curtosy of Maureen. God, he loves that girl. But for some reason, whenever he thinks of her, it doesn't take too long for his mind to wander to Roger - especially during sex.

He looks across the street and sees Roger step out of the building on the corner. Their eyes meet in a matter of seconds. The older man grins as they walk toward each other and meet halfway in the middle of the avenue. They embrace each other with a tight, violent hug. They mutter random words and phrases, mostly Roger saying, "Son of a bitch."

Roger wraps his arm around Mark's shoulder and leads him back to his building. He's about to let them in when he stops. Before Mark can say anything, the filmmaker is shoved against the brick wall and Roger's lips crash into his. Roger brings his calloused hands up to Mark's cheeks and Mark's hands grab at Roger's back and ass.

* * *

"Angel, Joanne, is your girls' room clean?" Mimi asked her daughters.

"Yes, Mommy," Angel answers, her tone suggesting otherwise. Joanne doesn't answer, but instead takes a sip from her cup of apple juice.

Mimi playfully narrowed her eyes at her eldest child. "You don't call me Mommy unless you're lying to me," she teases. "If I go in there and see that you didn't clean your room..."

"What'cha gonna do?" Angel's eyes widen in fear.

"Well, I guess I'll have to forget about walking you girls to the Life Café for ice cream later."

"No, Mama!" Joanne cries. She starts to run to her room.

"I was gonna clean it tomorrow," Angel whines.

"Then no ice cream-"

"I'm going now Mama!" The four-year-old races off.

Mimi shakes her head and walks onto the fire escape. She pulls a cigarette out of her pocket and is about ready to light up when she notices two figures rolling around on the sidewalk. _Probably a couple from the abandoned lot._ She cranes her neck to see the back of a fading-bleached-blonde guy with someone else's hands groping the back of him. The Latina nearly drops her cigarette. She doesn't need to see his face, or the other guy for that matter, to know exactly who's down there. When the two men pull apart, Mimi trips as she climbs back through the window. She can't believe what she just saw. _Roger isn't gay. Roger isn't gay. I mean, he's married to me! We have two kids, for fuck's sake! And we have a great sex life..._ Mimi rethinks that final thought for a minute. Soon, she's interrupted by the door sliding open and Roger and Mark walking into the loft.

"Mimi, this is Mark Cohen," Roger introduces. "Mark, my wife, Mimi." Mark smiles meekly at Mimi, who just nods blankly. "Mimi, Mark and me haven't seen each other in four years," Roger adds, breathing heavy.

_Oh, God, we've only been married for four years. No wonder. This explains so much._

"Sure enough," Mimi states flatly.

A crash is heard from Angel and Joanne's room, most likely Angel accidentally knocking something off of a shelf. Shortly thereafter, Joanne's crying echoes through the loft.

Mark trembles. "You got a kid?" he asks.

"Two little girls: Angel and Joanne," Roger answers. He smiles. "Love them to pieces."

Mimi's mouth twitches.

"I was thinking about having kids," Mark babbles. "After I get married though. Tell you what, I'm about to pop the question to a cute little girl from Brown. Maureen."

Roger nods and looks at Mimi. His want to leave is more than obvious. "Jack and I are going out and getting a drink. Might not be back tonight, we get to drinking and talking."

"Sure enough," the dancer repeats.

"Pleased to meet you, Mimi," Mark says, clutching his camera and giving a small wave. The two men head out the door.

"Roger..."

"Mimi, you want smokes there's some in the pocket of my blue shirt in the bedroom," Roger calls back as he descends the stairs.

"Mama, I finished cleaning my room!" Angel shouts.

Mimi sighs in defeat and slides the metal door shut. "Coming, baby," she calls out to her daughter.

_Dammit, Roger, why do you have to be a queer?_

* * *

"Fuck, Roger, I've been waiting for this," Mark breathes as he slams the motel room door shut.

"Oh, really now?" the rocker asks, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

"You have no idea." Mark kisses Roger's neck, biting and sucking his skin. Roger's eyes roll back and he holds Mark close to him. He lifts up the filmmaker's head and their lips meet. Their tongues do the tango and they fall back, Mark pinning Roger. Mark lifts Roger's shirt up and sucks on the exposed skin. His tongue runs over a nipple, then bites on it lightly, enjoying the throaty groans coming from Roger.

"God damn, Cohen," Roger gasps. "I forgot how good you are with your mouth."

"Well after tonight you're definitely gonna remember," Mark teases. He runs his tongue down to Roger's navel.

"Oh, shit, I can't take this anymore." Roger reaches up and yanks Mark's shirt over his head. They roll over, Roger now straddling Mark. He quickly removes the rest of the clothing on both of them.

"You bring protection?" Mark asks.

"No, but it's not like I'm gonna knock you up." Roger stops Mark from talking with his mouth while rolling him over onto his stomach. Roger spits into his hands and uses it to wet his hardening cock. He then rewets his fingers and slides one into Mark. Mark grips the sheets and moans into them. Roger grins and adds a second finger, scissoring inside of him, hitting all of those pleasure spots that he remembers. A third is entered into Mark, and Mark shouts Roger's name.

"Roger, fuck, just put it in me," he begs. "Fuck me, dammit, fuck me."

Roger pulls out his fingers and soon thrusts himself into Mark.

"Slow," Mark pleads. "It's been a while. Go slower."

"Anything for you," Roger replies. He does another thrust, this time much slower. Mark grunts with pleasure. Roger continues at a steady pace and kisses Mark's shoulder blades.

"Shit, that feels nice," Mark grunts.

"Just nice?" Roger asks. "What about mind-blowing, motherfucking amazing?"

"God, this is mind-blowing, motherfucking amazing!"

The rocker smiles.

* * *

"We gotta talk about this," Mark says from the edge of the bed. He looks back at Roger, who's leaning against the headboard. Both of them are smoking. "Swear to God I didn't know we were gonna get into this again." Roger gives him a look. "Yeah, I did. Red-lined all the way, couldn't get here fast enough."

"Four years," Roger says with a snort. "I was about to give up on you. Figured you were sore about that goodbye."

"Roger, that next summer I drove back to Cyberarts and talked to Grey about a job. I heard you hadn't been back there, so I went back to Brown. I went with my friend to film a protest against the dean. That's how I met Maureen. We surprisingly hit it off. She's the complete opposite of me. Loud, eccentric, total diva, talented, sexy as hell, too. We're gonna graduate soon too. Maybe settle in Scarsdale." He pauses to drag on the cigarette. "My parents hate her guts, so it's a hard go now, but one of these days..."

"What happened to making it big in the film industry?" Roger asks.

"Nope, they weren't too interested in my films," Mark answers. He sighs. "College wasn't what I thought it would be. Surrounded by a bunch of people who do nothing but smoke weed and play Ultimate Frisbee like it's their jobs. I'm gonna get out of that place as soon as I get my diploma."

Roger nods. He takes a hit of his cigarette and exhales slowly. "I've been sitting up here all this time, trying to figure out if I was...?" He shakes his head quickly, unable to finish the sentence. "I know I'm not. I mean, here we both have girls, and I'm married with kids, right? I like doing it with women, but Jesus H... it's nothing like this." He looks at the back of Mark's head. "Never had any thoughts of doing it with a guy."

"Me either," Mark lies. He puts the cigarette back to his lips for a minute. "Old Brokeback got us good. We got to work out what we're gonna do now. Roger, we've got a situation here." He looks back at Roger. They hold eye contact for a moment before Roger looks away to stub out his cigarette.

"I doubt there's nothing we can do," Roger says. "What I'm saying is, I built up a life those four years. Love my little girls."

"What about Mimi?"

"Mimi? This isn't her fault... What about you? You've got your girl, Brown... besides, you and me can hardly be decent together, what if what happened back there grabs on us like that? We do that in the wrong place, we'll be dead." He sits up on the edge of the bed before walking over to the bureau to grab himself another cigarette. "No reins on this one, Marky. Scares the piss out of me."

Mark takes a deep breath. "I'm getting out of the independent film industry, Roger. I can't afford to rely on selling them forever, and I don't have much inspiration, either. What if you and me had our own loft together, your music and my films, it'd be some sweet life. Shit, my parents, you bet he'd give me a down payment if I'd get lost. Already more or less said it-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Roger cuts off. "It's not gonna be that way. I'm stuck with what I got here, caught in my own loop." He sees the stricken look that immediately crosses Mark's face. "Mark, I don't wanna be like those guys you see around... and I don't wanna be dead."

Mark raises an eyebrow in confusion, praying it'll hide his fear. Roger senses this and sits back on the bed. He wraps his arms around Mark and pulls him halfway on his lap. His fingers absent-mindedly run up and down his cheek lightly.

"There were these two old guys lived together down home, Steve and Gordon," he explains. "They were a joke even though they were pretty much tough old birds. They found Steve dead in a construction site. They'd took a knife to him, beat him up, drug him around by his dick till it pulled off..."

"You saw that?" Mark asks in horror.

"I was what, nine years old? My uncle made sure I'd seen it, me and my dad. He laughed about it. Hell, for all I know, he'd done the job. If he was alive and was to put his head in that door right now, you bet he'd go get his knife." He lets out a bitter laugh. "Two guys living together? No way. We can get together once in a while way the hell out in the back of nowhere..."

"Once in a while every four fucking years?" Mark's voice shakes as he snaps.

"I've been looking at people on the street. This happened to other people? What the hell do they do? I goddamn hate it that you're gonna drive away in the morning, and I'm going back to my life... But if you can't fix it, Mark, you gotta stand it."

Mark stands up and stares down at Roger. "I don't give a flying fuck about other people. Son of a bitch, Roger, take a couple of days off. Right now. Grab your shit and come back here, let's stay in hiding here."

The two men stare each other down. A distant phone from another room rings. Roger sighs before reaching for the phone on the nightstand.

* * *

Roger tries his hardest to fall asleep, even though Mimi has elbowed him seven times so far in the ribs whenever she caught him. In her lap, Joanne, now five, keeps her thumb in her mouth and stares in awe at her big sister on the stage.

It's Angel's school's annual Christmas play. Even though she's only seven, she has more talent the older kids in grades four through six. The music teacher had insisted that the second grader must get a part in the performance, and of course, after a short audition, the director casted her. She's wearing a white dress and tin foil wings. Her black hair has been cut short for the occasion ("Tho I can thow off my pretty wingth!" she had cried, her S's mispronounced because of the two missing front teeth), just above her shoulders. A few white flowers are clipped on top of her head. She, of course, is an angel, singing Silent Night with her entire heart. Her audience is captivated by the young girl's voice.

Mimi frowns at Roger and elbows his ribs for an eighth time. The rocker wakes back up and tries to watch Angel perform.

* * *

"Hi. Mark Cohen here, reporting for Buzzline," Mark tells the camera lens, a fake smile on his face and a microphone held to his face. "Back to you, Alexi! Coming up next, vampire welfare queens who are compulsive bowlers!"

"And we're clear," the cameraman announces. Mark nods and lets the assistant take the mic from him. He walks back to the van so he can reunite with his own beloved camera and possibly shoot some footage of the busy streets and homeless people.

"Didn't that piss-ant use to shoot his own films?" the assistant asks.

The cameraman snorts as Mark films a guy near a large group of bicycles. "He used to _try_..."

* * *

Maureen leans in the doorway and watches as Mark hastily packs a duffel bag for the weekend. He mumbles swears under his breath as he rummages through the trunk at the end of the bed. His girlfriend blows lightly on her orange nails and sighs as loudly as she can manage. Her nostrils flare when she's ignored.

"Why can't your buddy come up here to Scarsdale to perform gigs?" she asks, irritated.

"'Cause CBGB's isn't in Texas," Mark responds quickly.

Maureen groans and examines her fresh manicure. "Doesn't seem right, you driving up there two or three times a year, him never coming up here." She looks up to see that he's not paying any attention to her, but rather finding another shirt to pack on his trip. He looks at his bag and frowns at what's already in there. He takes out one shirt and throws it in the open closet.

"Son of a..." he murmurs.

"You're not even listening," Maureen says, annoyed.

"Seen my warm jacket?"

The diva waves her hands, trying to dry her nails. "You said you'd help Alexi set up interviews with those new Broadway stars."

"I told you, Maureen, we've already got that covered," Mark tells her sternly. He finally turns to face her. "Why do you always ride my ass about this? I'm the best goddamn reporter for Buzzline, better than Alexi freaking Darling! I've got this. Look, I got a bit of a long bus ride ahead of me. I gotta go." He looks around the room again before asking, "You sure you haven't seen my jacket?"

"No, I haven't seen your goddamn jacket!" Maureen snaps.

* * *

Mimi watches Roger put on his jacket, right before he goes to another one of his so-called gigs. "Candy says they got an opening over at the Pyramid Club. Maybe you can check it out when you get back."

Roger, as usual, ignores her.

"Bye Daddy!" Angel and Joanne exclaim. They stand tall as their dad kisses their foreheads. The sisters run into their room to wait for their mother to tuck them in. Mimi is only given a brief, one-armed hug. Roger's almost out the door when Mimi clears her throat loudly.

"Hey... forgetting something?" she asks, motioning over to the guitar sitting on the couch.

Roger nods and grabs his guitar before heading out the door.

Mimi sighs. She's no idiot. She knows exactly what these "gigs" are all about.


	8. Chapter 8

"Ha! I win! You have the Old Maid!"

"No fair! You tricked me!"

"Joanne, if you keep on picking the obvious card, you'll never win, dummy!"

"Daddy, Angel called me a dummy!"

"It's not my fault that you keep on choosing the Old Maid!"

Roger groans. He regrets the day he bought Joanne decks of cards for her birthday. It's all she and Angel do together, meaning that if one wins, the other gets upset and tries to get her parents in on the game to declare the loser as the winner. In the end, both girls always end up agreeing to disagree and move on to the next game, like right now, as Angel runs back to her room to try to find Monopoly. He nurses the beer in his hand as he slouches in front of the television, mindlessly watching _Kung Fu_. Mimi's leaning against his shoulder, progressively growing restless.

"It's Saturday night," she says. "Looks like you'd want to step out once in a while. Have a little fun."

Roger doesn't answer and drinks his beer quietly.

"Mama, come play with us," Joanne begs, tugging on Mimi's sweater sleeve.

Mimi looks at her husband and sighs. "Okay, Jo."

* * *

Later that night, while reading a copy of _The Village Voice_, Mimi peaks over the paper to see Roger stripping off his shirt. She blushes faintly; she can't remember the last time she'd purposefully seen her own husband shirtless. He turns and sees her spying on him. He smiles and drops his shirt on the floor. He crawls onto the bed and rips _The Village Voice_ out of Mimi's hands before kissing her. What starts out as short and sweet turns rough and passionate, both of them experiencing something they haven't felt in months, maybe even years. Roger rips off Mimi's shirt and yanks down her skirt and panties. He undoes his belt buckle, and for once, rather than flip her over on her stomach, he decides not to try sodomy tonight, as he kisses and nibbles at her neck.

"As far behind as we are on the bills, in makes me nervous not to take no precautions," Mimi says in a hushed tone.

Roger pulls away from her. "If you don't want no more of my kids, I'll be happy to leave you alone."

"...I'd have them, if you'd support them..." Mimi says under her breath. Roger doesn't hear her, but he does turn his back to her. Mimi sighs and turns off the lamp on the bedside table. Tonight, Angel and Joanne can tuck themselves in.

* * *

"Divorce granted," the judge declares as he pounds his gavel.

It'd just been decided that Mimi gains custody of their six- and eight-year-old daughters, but must let Roger have one weekend with them every month. She looks sad but determined. She buries her face in her hands and starts to cry.

Roger is miserable.

* * *

Mark has just pulled up to his and Maureen's house. They'd recently become engaged and moved into a house together almost instantly. He's almost completely forgotten about Roger, now that the upcoming wedding is on his mind almost every minute. He whistles along to his Walkman, playing Pasty Cline's "Crazy". He sees a postcard sticking out of the screen door. He knits his brow and slides it out of the door. He reads the back:

**DIVORCE FINAL. -R**

Mark walks through his front door singing along with Patsy Cline, grinning like an idiot. He doesn't notice the funny look Maureen is giving him.

* * *

"Daddy, can we go to the Life Café for dinner?" Joanne asks politely.

"I want ice cream!" Angel declares.

Roger smirks; Joanne has always been the better-behaving daughter, while Angel has more of a personality from her sister, mostly from the experiences she's gained from performing on stage. "You can get ice cream at the Life Café," he tells Angel. "Next month, you can pick the restaurant we go to. Tonight, we're celebrating Joanne's perfect-A's."

"I got A's too!"

"Angel, sweetie, it's good that you got A's in art and music, but you need to bring up the B-minus you got in math."

"But I gotta focus on my lines! You can't expect Little Orphan Annie to forget the words!"

"And I know you won't." He kisses her forehead and shut the passenger door. Angel and Joanne quickly get lost in playing a hand-slapping game they'd picked up during recess. Roger's about to climb into the driver seat when a beat-up blue car pulls up behind him. Mark steps out of the car, surprising him. The two walk right up to each other and hug tight.

"What're you doing here?" Roger asks.

"Got your postcard about the divorce," Mark answers, excitement in his tone. He notices the dumbfounded look on Roger's face and explains, "The message said your divorce was final, so here I am." He smiles. "Had to ask about ten different people in bars where you live."

Roger sees the postcard in Mark's hand. He frowns. He realizes what Mark means. Now that there's no Mimi in the picture, Mark thinks Roger wants to be together... permanently. There's no way in hell he'll ever do such a thing, and the look on his face heavily hints that to Mark, whose smile drops as well. He slouches over in embarrassment. "...I guess I thought..." he mumbles.

"Mark, I got the girls this weekend... otherwise you could stay," Roger says, pained. "I'm sure as hell sorry." Mark nods, trying to regain his dignity. He tries to speak, but he's too choked up to say anything. "I get them once a month. Missed last month because of the roundup... Mark..."

The filmmaker fakes a smile weakly. "I'll see you first week of June, then..."

Roger watches his lover get back into his old car and drive off before getting into his car to take his daughters to their favorite restaurant.

* * *

Mark has to get out of New York. There's no way he can stay after the embarrassing encounter he just had with Roger, of all people. The one person he expects to always be there no matter what. Now he doesn't have the time for him. He turns on the radio to distract him. Of course, Merle Haggard's "My Friends Are Gonna Be Strangers" comes on. He turns off the radio and keeps on driving. He knows one place he can go and be himself, even without Roger.

He'll call Maureen later.

* * *

Mark finds himself at a seedy gay bar in Pittsburg. All it took was one glance at the sign and he decided to turn off of the highway. He's now in some bar downtown, where gay men walk around freely without giving two shits. He grasps the fifth shot glass he's ordered so far and sips it.

"One more?" the bartender asks, ready to pour it. Mark shakes his head and pays the bartender. "Good night, sugar." The bartender moves on to other customers.

Across the bar, Mark sees a guy eye-fucking him. Tall, gorgeous, with brown hair and designer clothes. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing an amazing six-pack. Mark can't help but ogle this stranger. He downs the rest of his shot when this god walks over to him, swiftly weaving through the crowd as he makes his way to the awkward, lonely filmmaker.

"Back room?" he asks in a dark tone. Mark nods in response and kisses this stranger's lips. The man smiles and leads Mark through a door in a dark room with a blue hue full of men having sex out in the open, something Mark's never witnessed before.

He decides he likes it.

* * *

Thanksgiving is painfully awkward. While Maureen is stuck with the painfully boring Cohen family, Roger sits through a meal with Mimi, who is now married to - and pregnant with the son of - Dave, Roger's boss, who's the manager at CBGB's. Now he understands why Mimi came to visit him at work so much while they were married. However, this has no effect on Angel and Joanne, who are thrilled nonetheless to see their dad.

"Daddy, tell us about when you were in a rock band," Angel asks, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Short story, honey," Roger says, trying to remain modest, despite the growing urge he has to one-up his own boss. "People came out from all over the city, even other parts of the state and New Jersey, to see the hottest band, The Well Hungarians. And I was the frontman. And the next thing I knew, everyone loved me - only I didn't grow more famous like you did, Angel, and my fame didn't last long, either." He smiles and reaches across the table to playfully poke her nose. "And that's the story of my failed rock career."

Angel and Joanne obviously don't think Roger has failed, and beg for stories about their dad's days in the spotlight.

A smug glance grows on Dave's face. Even though he knows that Roger has done more with his life, he's the one married to Mimi. That's all he needs.

* * *

Roger carries two plates into the kitchen, the remains of Joanne and his own dinners on the plate. He sets them on the counter and stands aside while Mimi scrapes the scraps into the trashcan.

"You ought to get married again, Roger," she suggests. "Me and the girls worry about you being alone so much."

"Once burned..." Roger begins.

"You still go to gigs with Mark Cohen?"

"Some."

"You know..."

Roger gulps. He knows _exactly_ where this conversation is going.

Mimi's voice trembles as she continues, "... I used to wonder how come you never came home with girls' numbers. Always said you'd always score, especially when you went to clubs. So one time, I got your amp case open the night before you went out to one of your gigs - price sticker still on it after five years - and I tied a note on the handle It said, 'Hello, Roger, bring some little bottles of booze home, love, Mimi'... And then you came back looking all perky and said you'd bought a bunch of alcohol and drank it all up." She sees the stiffening smile on Roger's face. "Remember?" When Roger doesn't answer, she scrapes the plates harder and faster, her control starting to slip. "I looked in the case first chance I got and there was my note still tied there." She turns to face him. "That amp hasn't been used in its life." She turns on the faucet in the sink and places the plates in there.

"That doesn't mean anything," Roger claims.

Mimi turns. "Don't lie, don't try to fool me anymore, Roger. I know what it means. Mark Cohen? Mark Nasty. You and him..." Before she can finish her sentence, Roger grabs her wrists and twists it, causing her to drop a plate. Tears spring to her eyes. This is a side of Roger she'd never witnessed before.

"Shut up," he growls. "Mind your own business. You don't know anything about it."

"I'm gonna yell for Dave!" Mimi threatens.

"You fucking go right ahead. Go on and fucking yell. I'll make him eat the fucking floor and you, too." He lets go of Mimi, who grabs her wrist in pain.

"Get out! Get out! Get out!" she sobs. "You hear me, Roger Davis? Get out!"

Roger storms out of the kitchen, grabbing his hat on the way.

"Daddy!" Joanne cries.

Roger pauses to hug and kiss Angel and Joanne, knowing fully well that he may not see either of them after tonight. He storms out of the house and gets right in his car.

"Bye, Daddy!" Angel and Joanne call out from the front porch.

Roger gives the girls one last looks before driving off, the snow starting to dance in the chilling air.


	9. Chapter 9

Mark frowns at Roger's shivering frame as they walk down East Eleventh Street. "Don't you ever wear a coat?"

Roger grins. He finds it cute when Mark starts to be worried about him. "When it's cold," he answers. "Seems like spring to me."

"It may be spring where you're sitting, but two feet north, it's goddamn winter, I tell you." They walk into the same motel, to the same room that they've rented for years now.

It's been seven years since the Thanksgiving Roger had nearly attacked Mimi. After talking it over, they'd agreed to let Roger still have his monthly weekends with the girls, who wouldn't allow their mother to keep them from seeing him anymore. The girls are now sixteen and fourteen, and they barely have any resemblance to their dad. Joanne has his wild hair, when it used to be longer. She's as level-headed as Mimi was when Roger and her were still married, and even though Joanne's just starting high school, she's already decided that she's going to be a lawyer and go to Harvard. Angel has the better half of his personality and definitely his talent. She started playing the drums her freshmen year of high school, and now she's in a band with some friends, on top of her four stage performances every year. She even bleached her long hair so it's as blonde as Roger's was when he was nineteen. Both girls are beautiful, and Roger's glad to be their dad.

Mark, on the other hand, hasn't done much with his life. He cut back on his visits to Roger a bit, telling Maureen that he always went down to see him, when he actually continued to go back to Pittsburg. Maureen didn't mind too much; there were several occasions when she was caught with someone else in bed, men and women. Mark would act as if he was disappointed, but he didn't leave her. He had been just as guilty as she was. It actually helped their relationship. It's not like he wants to leave Maureen. They'd been married for five years, and they're a duo. She performs, he manages her. They both run from the cops and make sure that they end up on the news for whatever they're protesting, which happens frequently enough. Although Mark's family doesn't approve of Maureen, Mark doesn't care; he's in love with her. To him, she's the more peppy female equivalence of Roger, who isn't ashamed to show him off to the world.

"How's your wife doing?" Roger asks as the two men lie on their backs on the bed.

"She's wonderful," Mark replies. "Can hardly sit still. I told her that she needs to pull the reins back a bit and settle down every now and then, but she won't hear of it. Only wants to put her voice out there for everyone to hear. Mimi lighten up on you yet?"

Roger shakes his head at his ex's name. "I still see my girls once a month. Joanne, she's fourteen now, a beanpole, real quiet."

"Like her daddy," Mark teases.

The rocker smiles. "Now, Angel, she's the live wire. Joanne's the shy one."

They both fall asleep in each other's arms that night.

* * *

Roger starts drinking his fourth beer. In front of him, _Different Strokes_ reruns are on the television, the sounds barely audible over the jukebox, which is now playing an Eagles song. It's not a wild scene, but there are a few couples on the dance floor. He ignores them and focuses on Gary Coleman on the screen.

Across the room, one of the waitresses, April Ericsson, eyes Roger, a glass of white wine in hand. Her blood-red lips curl into a smile as she imagines what she and this stranger could do together. As the Eagles song stops, she pulls a quarter out of her pocket and pushes it through the coin slot. She chooses as Redbone song and looks up to see Roger sliding off his bar stool and walk toward the mens' room. She quickly rushes across the room and blocks his path.

"Just finished my shift," she says directly, not wanting to pass up the golden opportunity. "Wanna dance?"

Roger looks past the waitress at the mens' room. He points over her shoulder. "Was on my way to the..."

She grabs his finger. "I'm April... April Ericsson."

Roger barely makes the connection in his head; she looks much different from what he remembers, with her hair now chopped up short and dyed bright red. He lets her pull him toward the dance floor. She sets her wine glass down on one of the tables as she leads him.

"Roger Davis."

Of course, April knows who he is, but doesn't say so. She can tell that he's too drunk to remember much. She also remembers how bad of a dancer Roger is. However, that isn't going to ruin the moment for her. She grinds against him, taking his hands in hers and running them over her torso seductively. When the chorus starts, she turns around, and they're lost in each other's eyes.

Roger can tell that he's starting to fall for her all over again.

* * *

When the song ends, Roger makes his way back to the bar. April grabs her glass and sits next to him. Another waitress refills it, and April motions for her to leave the bottle, which she does.

"No more dancing for me," Roger says, out of breath. "I hope."

April takes off her high-heel boots and rubs her aching feet. "You're safe," she assures him. "My feet hurt."

"Hard work, is it?"

"Yeah, drunks like you demanding beer after beer, smoking. Gets tiresome." There's a playful hint in her tone and a twinkle in her eye. "What do you do, Roger Davis?"

"Earlier today, I was a bartender too."

April makes a face and giggles. Soon, her stocking-clad feet are on Roger's lap.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

April smiles. "Trying to get a footrub, dummy."

Roger smiles back.

* * *

Mark decides that he really doesn't like Alison Grey-Coffin.

On a way to the Benefit for the NYC Children's Home, Maureen spotted a car broken down on the side of the road. They reluctantly pulled over to see if they needed a lift, and ironically, it was Benny and his wife, also on their way to the same place as them. They'd climbed into the backseat and rode over with them. The entire car ride consisted of Alison complaining about Benny's inability to fix a car, or to bring their car to a mechanic. It was obvious by the faces Maureen had been making in the passenger seat that this woman got on her nerves as well.

And she's still chattering like a squirrel. "Pledged Tri Delt at Brown and I sure never thought I'd end up in a pokey little place like New York, but then I met Benjamin at a restaurant, and he was a business management major, and so here I am."

This got Maureen's attention. "Oh, you were Tri Delt? I was Kappa Phi myself."

"Well, even though we aren't quite sorority sisters, we may have to dance with ourselves, Maureen. Our husbands aren't the least bit interested in dancing, they don't seem to have a smidgen of rhythm between them."

"It's funny, isn't it? Husbands don't ever seem to dance with their wives. Why do you think that it, Mark?" Maureen asks, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"Never gave it any thought," Mark says. He turns to Alison. "Wanna dance?"

The blonde smiles and they head over to the dance floor.

Alison continues to talk. "I told Benjamin we ought to take the Mercedes, but he said no, the roads are too bad..."

Mark nods politely, but he isn't focusing on Alison. He looks over her head at Maureen and Benny. His wife is smoking, obviously scouting for someone else to dance with (and, knowing her, to potentially hook-up with, too). Benny is watching Mark and Alison, but Mark can't tell which one of them he's staring at more than the other.

Alison remains unphased. "...but then his ratty old Corvette died. Of course he doesn't ever listen to me..."

Mark wonders if anyone even bothers to listen to the chatty woman.

* * *

Later, Mark finds himself with Benny outside, both smoking and waiting for Maureen and Alison to return from the bathroom.

"Ever notice how a woman will powder her nose before a party starts, and then powder it again when the party's over?" he wonders. "Why powder your nose just to go home to bed?"

"Don't know," Benny answers, exasperated, obviously uninterested with the topic of women. He takes a hit from his cigarette. "Even if I wanted to know, I couldn't get a word in with Alison long enough to ask. The woman talks a blue streak."

"Lively little girl."

There's a pause. Benny puts out his cigarette and turns to face Mark. "My father-in-law's got a little cabin on the Upper Bay. Got a croppie house... little boat. Said I can use it whenever I want. Think you'd like to go down there some weekend? Drink a little whiskey, film some? Get away, you know?"

Mark's taken aback slightly by the gesture. Is his roommate inviting him on a, dare he say, romantic weekend getaway? Even offering to go out and film a bit? His wind wanders back to Roger. Their monthly visits have decreased, ever since Roger started dating some girl named April. She's livelier than Mimi, and a bit more demanding than her, too. They rarely even wrote anymore. Now, here's Benny, offering to do something more than Roger has ever offered to him.

Before Mark can answer, the men's wives return, Alison talking a blue streak, just as Benny said. Mark gives Benny a glance, his answer written in his smile.

* * *

Roger and April are sitting in his car, trying to watch _Flawless_ at the nearby drive-in movie theater. April's rapt, eating popcorn and drinking the cheap white wine she's really fond of. Roger tries to tamper with the volume, the high winds messing with the speakers.

"We ought to get our money back," he growls.

April lightly hits his shoulder. "Shut up, Roger, this is important. He's learning how to accept the drag queens."

Roger shakes his head and continues watching the movie. He makes a mental note of how one of the drag queens looks like Angel, if she'd been born a boy, especially since they both had bleach blonde hair.

"Truck smells like shit," he comments.

Now April's annoyed. "Sh! Turn up the volume!"

"It's already up as high as it'll go."

Thankfully, the movie isn't too much longer, and Roger's the first to speed out of the parking lot. April's arms are crossed, upset at her boyfriend. Roger looks over at her, but she avoids his glance and stares out the window.

"You hardly ever take me any place nice," she whines.

Roger shrugs. "I take you everywhere."

"Everywhere in the Lower East Side. Why can't you take me to Broadway? We could've seen a musical about the same thing indoors."

"Three hours of walking to see drag queens and cops?"

"So? You drive all over just to go to gigs and performances with your friends."

Roger ignores her last comment, not wanting their fighting to grow into the one he had with Mimi years ago. He just clenches his jaw and continues driving.


	10. Chapter 10

"I wanna try something new this time, Roger," Mark says as the two men lay in bed on their sides, facing each other with half-smiles on their faces. Of course, they're happy to see each other, but when they remember reality, it's hard to put on a happy face.

"What?" the rocker asks, curious. "Wanna go somewhere else?"

"No, I mean in bed." To demonstrate, Mark lies on his back and grabs the back of his thighs, pulling his legs so that his knees are a couple of inches from his head.

"Cool trick. What's that got anything to do with bed?"

"We can fuck and still look at each other, not you at the back of my head and me at the goddamn sheets."

"Oh... _oh!_" Now Roger fully understands. Sure, it's different than usual, or at least, whenever he and Mark fuck. "You wanna try now?"

"Now's perfect."

Roger rolls on top of Mark and starts kissing him. While he reaches into his front pocket for a condom, his tongue swipes over Mark's lips, slipping into the smaller man's mouth, tasting the stale beer and vodka they'd been drinking that night. He locates the rubber and fishes it out. He groans as Mark kisses his neck, sucking on the pale skin he uncovers. Roger uses this time to take Mark's shirt and jeans off. The filmmaker takes the hint and strips Roger as well.

Soon, both men are fully nude, Roger still on top of Mark. Mark decides to stroke Roger's hardening cock, eliciting throaty moans from the rocker. He reaches over and grabs the dented tube of lube from it. He hands it to Roger and watches him slowly squeeze some into the palm of his hand. Shortly thereafter, he can feel Roger's finger inside of him. He knows he's tight, and by the looks in Roger's eyes, he can tell that the older man feels pleasure. He takes the condom that was placed on the mattress and tears the foil. He rolls it onto Roger's cock and then coats it in lube. He bites his lip when a third finger is put inside him.

"God, fuck, Roger, now!" he begs.

Roger nods and pulls his fingers out of Mark, wiping them off on the bed sheets. He takes Mark's legs and puts them on his shoulders. He smirks at the giddy expression on Mark's face. He pauses briefly before slowly pushing into Mark, feeling his partner's legs move against his shoulders. He looks at Mark to see if he wants him to stop, but now he can see why Mark had suggested this in the first place. While they're having sex, they can see each other, not the back of heads or mattresses, like Mark had said. As he thrusts in and out at a now steady pace, he decides to test Mark's newfound flexibility by leaning forward and crashing their lips together. It's a kind of pleasure neither had experienced together before. Both of them love it. They continue to kiss, Roger eventually using his hands to fist Mark, until both come together.

* * *

Months later, Mark asks Roger to meet up at a cabin in the middle of the woods, further north. Roger agrees, wondering why they're going somewhere new rather than the same place they'd gone to all these years. He drives up to the cabin, following the directions Mark had sent him in a letter, and is astonished to see a lavish log cabin. It's something he would have never expected, especially since Mark is paying for it. Said filmmaker comes out of the front door as Roger gets out of his car, a goofy grin on his face.

"What'd you do, Marky, strike oil?" Roger asks as the two embrace.

"Better than that," Mark answers. He smiles, revealing his newly capped teeth. "Maureen's old man dropped dead, left her a huge inheritance. Apparently, she's from a rich family, but she never shared. Plus, I've been promoted at Buzzline, so I'm making twice as much, you ought to see it. Life's easy now, Roger." He walks around to the back of Roger's car and grabs his bags. "Come on, let's get your shit inside. If you're staying, let's go inside."

Roger follows Mark inside the cabin. It's a one-story place, with three rooms - a main room including a living room and full kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. A fireplace is in one of the walls by a thick carpet, a small fire crackling inside, keeping the house warm for late-March. Roger sits by it to warm up; his car heater broke a few years ago and he's too broke and lazy to fix it. Mark throws Roger's things in the bedroom with little care and walks to the kitchen sink. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it.

Roger makes a face. "Get lepto drinking that," he warns. "Better to have a beer."

Mark grimaces and dumps the rest of the cup down the drain. Then he grins. "Can do better than beer." He reaches into an upper cabinet to produce a bottle of whiskey. He cracks the seal and takes a large swig before sitting by Roger and passing the bottle.

"That's one of the two things I need right now," he says.

Roger raises an eyebrow. "What's the other?"

Mark leans in close and whispers in Roger's ear, "You inside of me."

Roger takes the hint and is the first to kiss the other. Mark lightly moves Roger to lying down on his back so he can straddle him. They roll around a bit, taking off their own clothes as they do, and soon, they're lying on the thick rug in front of the fire, kissing, completely naked, and trying not to call the current scene they're in something from a cheesy movie.

* * *

Roger, not wearing anything, rolls a joint, for some reason longing to be stoned at the moment. Mark, also still in the nude, wraps his arms around Roger's torso from behind, nuzzling his chin on Roger's shoulder.

"It's gonna snow tonight for sure," he states matter-of-factly. He smiles momentarily before his face hardens. "All this time, and you haven't found anyone else to marry?"

Roger lights his joint. "Not interested," he grunts. He takes a hit and slowly releases the smoke from his lips before passing it to Mark. "Been putting the blocks to a woman over in Greenwich. Waitresses part-time at the Pyramid Club." The two men share a look before the joint is passes back to Roger. They still don't know everything about each other's lives, especially since they've been spending extra time apart due to April and Pittsburg. "What about you and Maureen?" He smirks and hands Mark the joint. "Still lover dovey?"

Mark snorts at the sarcastic remark. "Hardly." He drags on the joint. "Hell, Maureen and I were never that way. She's good at getting five hundred strangers' attention over the smallest things, but so far as our marriage, the most productive thing we've done is each other." The joint is passed back to Roger. "I kinda got a thing going on with my old college roommate. Son-in-law yuppie. I expect to get shot by either Maureen or his wife, every time I slip off to see him." He giggles. "Best part is that his in-law is Mr. Grey."

Mark and Roger share a quick glance before the burst out in laughter at the pure irony, along with how high they currently are.

Mark looks Roger in the eye once they settle down. "Tell you what..." He moves so he's now in front of Roger rather than behind him. "...truth is, I miss you so much sometimes I could whip babies."

He looks away for a minute to poke the fire. When the two men look each other directly again, it's a powerful, passionate look they share, and they can both feel it.

* * *

Roger throws his things into his backseat. Their week together is definitely going to be burned into his memory forever. It was, as much as he regrets calling it this, the most romantic time of his life. Much more than his wedding and pathetic honeymoon with Mimi. Mark soon comes outside as well, packing his own car with his belongings.

"Guess I'll head on down to Scarsdale," the filmmaker says. "See the folks for a day or two."

Roger nods. He shifts uncomfortably. "Something I've been meaning to tell you, Marky," he confesses. "It's likely August before I can get away again, between Angel and Joanne's schedules, I'll be running all across New York for the next few months."

"August?" Mark asks, stunned. "What the hell happened to June? Christ, Roger, you had a fucking week to say a word about this!" Roger is silent. "And why is it that we're always hidden from everyone? We ought to go out, where there's more people like us. We ought to go to Pittsburg!"

"Pittsburg?" Roger shakes his head. He decides to try to lighten the mood and ease the tension growing between them. "Hell... you know me. About all the traveling I've ever done is going around the coffeepot, looking for the handle." There's an uncomfortable moment of silence. "Lighten up on me, Mark. We can come back in August. Fuck all we want. I'll ever write you a new song, too. You loved that one I wrote you last time."

"Never enough time, never enough," Mark growls. He looks at Roger. "You know, Roger, this is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation. You used to come away easy. Now it's like seeing the Pope."

"Mark, I gotta work," Roger counters. "In the earlier days, I used to quit my jobs. You forget how it is being broke all the time. You ever hear of Child Support? Let me tell you, I can't quit this one. And I can't get time off." He shakes his head. "It was tough enough getting this time. The trade-off was June. You got a better idea?"

"I did," Mark retorts. "Once."

Roger turns around and walks the other way. "... Pittsburg..." Why does this sound all too familiar to Roger? It takes him a moment before he realizes where it came from. "Fuck, Marky." He turns around and walks back to Mark. "You been to Pittsburg, Mark?"

Mark's caught off-guard. He's expected this, and he even has been preparing for this moment. He braces himself before squeaking, "Hell yes, I've been. What's the fucking problem?"

Roger takes a deep breath. "I gotta say this to you one time, Marky, and I'm not kidding. What I don't know, all those things I don't know could get you killed if I should come to know them."

This infuriates Mark. "Try this one," he says, "and _I'll_ say it just one time. Tell you what, we could've had a good life together, a really fucking good life, have a place of our own. You wouldn't do it, Roger, so all we have is the Brokeback Apartments. Everything built on that. It's all we got, boy, fucking all, so I hope that you never know the rest. Count the damn few times we've been together in the past twenty years. Measure the fucking short leash you keep me on, then ask me about Pittsburg, and then tell me you'll kill me for needing something that I hardly get. You have no fucking idea how bad it gets. I'm not you. I can't make it on a couple of high-altitude fucks once or twice a year." He lets out a cruel, bitter laugh. "You're too much for me, Roger, you son of a whorebitch son." Roger's taken aback by Mark's words. It's the last thing he's ever expected to hear from Mark of all people.

"I wish I knew how to quit you," Mark tells him.

Still shell-shocked, Roger's legs cave in, and he crashes on the ground. Mark stares at his partner, worrying that Roger just had a heart attack. "Jesus... Roger...?" He rushes to Roger's side, and the two men embrace almost violently, clutching each other for dear life, not wanting to let go.

They already know what the other is thinking: Nothing ended, nothing begun, nothing resolved.

Later, Mark sits on the front porch and solemnly watches his other half drive away, a tear rolling down his pale face. He wipes it away, trying to remain tough. Deep down, he knows that he'll regret saying goodbye to Roger Davis forever. A memory from the summer they'd met comes to mind. He was standing in the window, staring at the beautiful sunrise and filming it. From behind, Roger hugged him, held him close. Mark shivers at the memory, knowing he'll never share any experience like that ever again.

* * *

Roger nods at the waitress when she sets down his cup of coffee and piece of pie. In his current state of depression, he's sitting in the Life Café, the only place he can come to so he can think clearly. He's been recalling his final moments with Mark and regretting how it all went down. After he left, he went home and then came here to eat, hoping it'll help take his mind off his stressful life for a minute. Just then, April slides into the booth across the table. Her eyeliner is in runny streaks down her cheeks and her eyes puffy and red. Her white blouse is untucked on one side of her tight jeans. Her hair is messy too. Roger can already tell that this isn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

"Where've you been?" April asks. The restaurant goes dead silent. April conscientiously lowers her tone to a whisper and says, "I said, 'Where've you been?' I haven't seen you for a week. I called you up, and you said you weren't going out tonight."

"The Life Café is considered going out," Roger responds defensively. "I got hungry, so I came here to get some pie." He grows a bit irritated when April doesn't leave. "Can I eat in peace?"

"I've been driving around for hours, looking for your car," April says. Roger drops his fork. It clanks against the plate. The rocker looks around self-consciously. April snaps, "I drove to your loft and you weren't there."

"Didn't know you were my parole officer," Roger growls.

"I'm not your parole officer. I'm your girlfriend. Why can't you treat me like one?" April studies the look on Roger's face - dark, distant, inaccessible. She stares at the table. "I don't get you, Roger Davis."

Roger knows he's hurting her. He wants to make everything right, to tell her the truth, but how can he explain Mark to her? Technically, he's been around longer than her, longer than even Mimi. April looks at him again and sees the loneliness in his eyes. She gasps, realizing that she's not the answer to his problems. She realizes there's been someone else all along. Roger reaches for her shoulder. She quickly deflects his hand and rushes away from Roger. April's already sobbing by the time she reaches the door. Roger watches out the window as she gets in her truck and speeds off.

* * *

Mark takes a final drag from his cigarette before dropping it on the sidewalk and stamping it out. Around him are hundreds of men just like him; horny and looking for a good fuck out of another man for the night. He recognizes the first man he'd fucked out here. Now the man is attached to a little blonde, many years younger than the thirty-five-year-old Mark. He sighs and looks around. The men tonight all look like perverts trying to grab the youngest piece of they can get their hands on. Mark doesn't want to hang around. He starts walking back to the motel room he's staying in for the weekend.

Suddenly, a group of hands shoot out from the alleys and grab a hold of him, pulling him into the black abyss and drowning out his pleas for help as a flash of a blade crosses his vision.

* * *

Roger walks up the stairs to his loft, the one he used to share with Mimi and the girls (which he still does, but only with Joanne once a month, and Angel whenever she's home from college) when he was married. This stack of mail is thicker than usual. He shuffles through the pile. This month's rent, which he'll fortunately to be able to pay this month. Fashion magazines that Angel and Joanne are subscribed to. A few flyers, advertising sales at stores and upcoming music acts coming to the local bars, which Roger will most likely check out. Then a postcard.

He frowns. He's just sent this not too long ago to Mark. Of course, they're still talking. They'd both apologized to each other not too long after their fight. They couldn't stay mad at each other forever. Now he's holding the one he'd just sent in his hands. He knows that Mark still goes to Pittsburg (even though the filmmaker isn't going to admit it), so he should still receive his mail. He looks at the back of the postcard. He drops the rest of his mail and falls back against the wall, sliding to the floor, in complete shock. The red word stamped on the page stares him in the eye:

**DECEASED**


	11. Chapter 11

Maureen hugs the picture of her and Mark on their wedding day to her chest and grabs a tissue again. Mark has been dead for a little over a week, but she's unable to get over him. The funeral was last night. Her parents gave up on coaxing their daughter not too long into the service. She had sung a few songs that she remembers he liked. The looks she'd received from Mark's parents bothered her. After Mark was buried at the cemetery, she confronted them and asked why they were angry with her. Her mother-in-law had scoffed and said that if Maureen was a better wife to Mark then he wouldn't have been found stabbed to death in an alley behind a restaurant in the "bad part" of Pittsburg. Maureen had to clench her fists to keep herself from attacking the woman and told both parents that they weren't permitted to show up at her house, or even try to come near her ever again. Now that Mark's gone, she's procrastinating the inevitable - packing all of her belongings and moving to an apartment in the city, since she doesn't make nearly enough money to pay for the mortgage, and try her luck on Broadway.

The phone on the nightstand rings. Maureen takes a few seconds to collect herself before picking up the phone.

"_Uh, hello_," says a nervous voice. "_This is Roger Davis, I, uh..._"

Maureen furrows her brow. "Who?" she asks the stranger. "Who is this?"

"_Roger Davis. I'm an old buddy of Mark's, I-_"

"Mark used to mention you," Maureen interrupts quickly. She remembers having conversations with Mark about some man named Roger Davis. "You're the performing buddy or artist buddy, I know that. I would've let you know, but I wasn't sure about your name or address. Mark kept his friends' addresses in his head."

"_Why I was calling, to see what happened..._" Roger doesn't finish the sentence.

Maureen tries to keep her voice as level as she can manage. "Oh yeah, Mark was working on a segment for his show when he stepped into the road. He was in the path of a taxi who wasn't paying attention where he was going. Broke his ribs, nose and jaw, knocked unconscious on his back. By the time the meds came along, his lungs overflowed with blood, he drowned in his own blood. Terrible thing, he never did anything wrong. He was only thirty-five years old." Maureen shut her eyes as the visions of Mark's corpse came into her memory. The dried up blood covering his favorite sweater. The right lens on his glasses smashed. Meeting the woman and man who had found him, both of them just as hysterical as she was. Maureen blocks the memories and realizes that this Roger person hasn't said anything. "Hello?" she asks, unsure whether or not he hung up.

"_He buried down there?_"comes the croaked reply.

"We put a memorial down there at the Gay and Lesbian Center - the people who found him insisted," Maureen explains. She plays with the coiled phone cord as she talks. "He was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Scarsdale, in the plot his parents had bought long ago, God knows why they did so soon. No one thought he would die so young. He kept on saying that he wanted to visit some kind of apartment complex... Brokeback something. I thought it might've been where he grew up, but when I asked his parents, they were offended that I even suggested they lived in an apartment. But knowing Mark, it might be some pretend place where bluebirds sings and there's a Stoli spring."

She can hear Roger clearing his throat and take a few shaky breaths. "_...We spent a summer together at Brokeback one summer..._"

"Well, he said it was his favorite place. I thought he meant he used to get drunk. He drank a lot."

"_We drank to pass the time there. You have no idea how hard it was working for a bunch of rich snobs._"

Maureen smiles. "His old college roommate and his wife are. All they talk about is real estate and Blockbusters."

"_Were they wearing white?_"

"The missus was, why?"

"_They place we stayed at, me and Mark, the whole fucking penthouse was white, including the dog._"

Maureen chuckles at the remark. It feels good to laugh for her.

"_Thanks for your time, then... I sure am sorry... we were good friends..._"

Maureen suddenly remembers something. "Wait, Roger, before you go... I just remembered that Mark wrote something about you in his will - his parents made him, sometimes I swear they were expecting him to die young - and it wouldn't be fair to not let you know. Why don't you come up here so you can, you know, claim what Mark left you."

"_... That'd be great._"

Maureen gives Roger her address. He says that he'll be up tomorrow. She says goodbye and hangs the phone up. She smiles for a minute and peeks at the picture of her and Mark again before curling her legs up to her chest and falling asleep, despite it being the middle of the day.

* * *

Roger feels out-of-place the second he pulls up to Mark's house. Here he is, in a ratty car from the eighties, not as caught up in this obviously prim and proper neighborhood. Every lawn green and trimmed, every house bright and colorful, every car from no year before 2001, despite it being mid-2004. He's wearing black jeans with a silver chain, worn black sneakers, and a black-and-white button-down shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and the usual amount of black eyeliner, too. The people he can see outside now seem as if they're from a far-away suburban planet: women in thin sweaters with sundresses or mom jeans and polos, men in khakis and golf shirts. No blemishes on their skin, no facial hair on men, not even a hint of a slouch in their stances. Half of the men have kippot on their heads; Roger vaguely remembers Mark telling him about being from a town populated with more Jewish people than anyone imagines. It sickens him a bit. This gives him an idea of what to expect when he sees Maureen.

When Maureen opens the door, Roger is surprised. No sundress or mom jeans or even a remotely proper appearance, she is the other sore thumb. She's wearing leather pants and white tank top, her animal print bra visible through the thin material. Her hair is a mess, the top half tied back, each curl sticking out in whichever direction it chooses to. Her bright red lips are pursed, a ring of purple eyeliner around her deep green orbs. Roger blinks a few times and even has to do a double-take. It seems very unlikely to him that Mark had landed such a beauty.

"Are you Maureen Cohen?" he asks.

"Johnson, now," Maureen answers. "And you are...?"

"Roger." The rocker holds out his hand.

Maureen shakes it, a grin on her face. "Your parents just stopped at Roger?" she teases.

"Davis." Roger lets out a laugh and shakes his head. "Now there's no doubt in my mind that you married Mark. Little smartass told me the same thing when we first met."

"He does that to almost everyone." Maureen opens the door wider and steps back. "Why don't you come in? You want some coffee, or maybe a Coke?"

"Depends, crystal or soda?" Roger walks inside the house, shivering when the cool air hits him.

"Well, I'll have to talk to my dealer about crystal, but for now, will the drink do?" Maureen replies. She walks to the kitchen and gets two cans from the refrigerator. Roger follows and takes one from her, chugging half of the can in a few gulps.

"You two must've been perfect together," he says. When he sees Maureen start to tear up, he regrets his statement. "Oh, shit, it's too soon for you, isn't it? Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine," Maureen assures him, wiping away the tears before they fall. "It's just been hard, that's all. Between his death and his parents riding my ass about it, I've been under a lot of stress, that's all."

"Really?" Roger sits on the bar stool by the counter and leans over it towards Maureen. "Well, to help relieve some stress, how about you tell me how Mark really died."

The distraught widow blinks. "How the...?"

"Don't try to flatter yourself. You played that off very well, but I know a lie when I see one. Also, if he died while filming a segment, then it would've been played on Buzzline. So tell me what really happened."

Maureen takes a deep breath. "He, um, he was ganged up on in an alley in Pittsburg by some homophobes. A nice woman and little blonde boy found him the next morning and called the police. They said that it wasn't the first time that happened there, either. They seemed pretty shook up about it, too. Real sweet group of people." She bites her lip and looks up at Roger. "And I'm not the only liar here."

"Excuse me?"

"Mark was found in the middle of the gay community in Pittsburg. I knew that he wasn't straight. Don't you try to tell me that when you two went to those damn gigs. There was never any gigs. You two were lovers."

Roger clenches his fists. He can't even admit to himself that he and Mark were lovers. Hearing someone else tell him seems... too real. He sucks up his pride and says, "Yes, we were."

"I knew it," Maureen says under her breath. She can see how uneasy this makes Roger and puts her hand over his fist. "I'm not mad at you for this. I don't blame you for not telling anyone. If it makes you feel better... I'm bisexual, and you're the first and only person that I've told."

"Thanks," Roger mutters.

"If you wanna go upstairs," Maureen says quickly, not wanting to have to deal with awkward silence, "I packed the things Mark left for you in a box. Here, let me show you." She pulls Roger out of his seat and leads him upstairs to the master bedroom. Her clothes and other belongings are strewn across the room, but like she said, a box sits in the center of the bed. "Go ahead and take it," she says. "It'll help me when I start packing my things."

"Pack your things?"

"Well, I'm not gonna be able to afford living here. I'm selling the place and moving into an apartment, if I can afford one. I'll have to find a job, too." Maureen leans back against the doorway and lets out a groan. "This was so much easier when he was alive."

Roger takes a deep breath. He doesn't even think about what he's about to say. "Look, I've got a spare room at my loft in the Lower East Side, and the bar I work at is hiring. If you need a place to go, after everything that's happened in this past week..."

"Really?" Maureen asks.

"Well, sure. I mean, you're not too bad for a suburban girl."

Maureen hugs Roger. "Thank you so much." She pulls away and giggles. "And, just between you and me, I'm actually from Hicksville."

Roger snorts at that. He'll definitely be able to tolerate living with Maureen Johnson.

* * *

Roger slides open the door before Angel even gets the chance to knock on the door; he saw her pull up in a new Camaro, and he heard her singing a song from _A Chorus Line_ echoing up the stairwell. His daughter squeals and runs into her father's arms.

"Hello, darling," he greets her.

"Hey, Daddy," Angel replies. She pulls away from him. "Did you see my new car?"

"Beautiful. Where'd you get it."

Angel walks past her father into her second home. "It's Tom's."

Roger raises an eyebrow. "I thought you were seeing Steve?"

"Steve?" Angel rolls her eyes with a hint of disgust. "Daddy, that was two years ago."

"Does Steve still play guitar?"

"I don't know what he's doing. I'm seeing Tom now."

"What's this Tom fella do?"

"He's a Philosophy professor at NYU."

"Smart. You're twenty, I guess you can date who you want." Roger slides the door shut. He goes into the kitchen and pours Angel a cup of coffee, letting her dump in the enormous load of sugar she always craves. "By the way, don't mind Maureen," he warns his daughter. "She's my roommate, and we both gotta work at nine. That diva needs her beauty sleep."

Angel frowns. "Daddy, you need more friends."

"I got Maureen, sweetie, don't you worry." Angel sits at the metal table, and Roger sits in the seat across from her. "What's the occasion?" he asks. He knows that the rare visits from Angel means she has to tell him something important. He sees Joanne more often, but now she's a student at Harvard Law.

"Tom and I... we're getting married," Angel confesses.

Roger pulls a cigarette out his pocket and lights it. He looks at his oldest daughter. "How long have you known this Tom?"

A wave a relief rushes over Angel, and she starts to talk at a faster pace. "About a year. The wedding will be August fifth at the Plaza Hotel - we don't want to do it in a church, we don't want to worry about religious beliefs. Joanne's singing and Dave's gonna cater the reception, with his new business... I was hoping you would be there."

"I don't think that Dave will want to let me off," Roger says. Angel nods and stares at the ground. "However, I already took off that week in August beforehand, so he can't do anything about it."

Angel lets out another squeal and restrains herself from jumping across the table and hugging Roger. He gets up and grabs two shot glasses and a bottle of Stoli from the cabinets. He pours the liquor in the glasses and hands one to Angel.

"What're we breaking out the good vodka for?" Maureen asks as she pads into the main room, wearing an oversized Brown hoodie and a pair of Mark's boxers. She looks up and waves at Angel, not bothering to ask who she is.

"My baby girl is getting married," Roger said. He grabs a third glass and pours some Stoli for Maureen. She takes the glass from her roommate.

"I'm Maureen," she introduces to Angel.

"Angel," the younger girl says.

"To Angel and Tom," Roger toasts. The trio clink glasses before downing their shots.

* * *

Roger rushes into his bedroom later that night carrying a projector that he had been saving up for with the tips he had made from bartending. He sets it up as fast as he can and searches through the box Mark had left for him. All he's found in there so far are film reels, each one labeled with random parts of Mark's life. When Maureen first moved in, she said that Mark's parents have Mark's projector, and they now have a restraining order against Maureen for something that happened at Mark's funeral that Roger doesn't really know about. He searches for the one that he first saw, labeled _Mark & Roger: Seasons of Love_. It's near the bottom. Roger smiles and pulls it out gingerly. Using the instruction manual, he puts the film in the projection and presses play. He sits down on the bed and watches.

There were many memories that even he's forgotten of. There's even footage of when they weren't together yet, when they just goofed around the Greys' penthouse with Evita and Aiko. Roger doesn't budge while the film plays, or even blink. He has to try his hardest not to cry either. When it's done, he gently puts the film back in its tin and shuts the lid. He looks in the box again and finds another one labeled _Your Eyes_. He smiles; he doesn't remember Mark ever filming the song he wrote for him. He puts that reel in and when he back up, he accidentally knocks over the box. He picks it up and sees something at the bottom.

Mark's scarf.

Roger shakes his head. He remembers that scarf. He saw it wrapped around Mark's scrawny neck every time they met up. It was almost a part of Mark. Roger takes it out and wraps it around his neck and sits through his own performance of the best song he'd ever written. He looks through the others to see what else there is. He raises an eyebrow when he sees one with the words _XXX_ on it. Out of curiosity (although Roger's nearly one hundred percent sure it's Mark and Maureen having sex) he opens the tin.

Inside are a picture of Mark and Roger at the Brokeback Apartments and the guitar pick he thought he had left at the penthouse that summer. Roger lets out a laugh and holds the items in his hands, staring out the window at the grimy streets below.

"Mark, I swear..."


End file.
